


Lady in Red

by LueurdeLaube



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fractured Fairy Tale, Gen, Red Riding Hood Elements, Soul Eater Resonance Bang 2013, resbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LueurdeLaube/pseuds/LueurdeLaube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red Riding Hood AU. Maka Albarn, a sorceress attempting to track down a serial killer in Victorian London, stumbles upon a wolf in the woods. Written for the Soul Eater Resonance Bang 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Big Bad Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for resbang! Kudos for Maesnapdragon, MarshofSleep and VictoriaPyrrhi for organizing this and being very patient mods. I hope you like this and for once you're getting all chapters at once. Enjoy! And feedback is always appreciated :)

Once upon a time there was a forest called the Lost Woods in popular parlance. The forest was avoided by every man and woman; it was an ominous place, dangerous with its thick overgrowth of tall, imposing trees, keeping all light away─ a place feared by everyone. Eerie tales were spread about it, speaking of monsters with teeth sharp enough to tear your head off, claws big and strong enough to cut a body in half. Nobody dared to venture into the Lost Woods and the townsfolk took the longer path around it rather than chancing the shorter way through the forest.

However, there was a man who had come to call this very forest his home. He had been given the name of Soul by his parents. He used to live a life of careless indulgence, debauchery and sin until one day he was attacked by a beast that bit into his tender neck, leaving him to wait for death to come for him. However, death never sought out the young man, instead his body fell victim to changes that would haunt him for the entirety of his life: skin turned to white fur, his handsome face to a muzzle, his bones reshaping painfully until he took a form similar to the beast that attacked him.

He'd shed his human cloak on nights with a full moon in particular. Sometimes his anger was enough without the assistance of the moon's magic until he could change forms at will. Yet some characteristics of the wolf remained with him even in his human form: his once pale hair, the colour of wheat, turned into a stark white belying his youth; his eyes, the fairest blue anyone had ever beheld, and which had weakened many a virtuous lady's resolve not to fall prey to his charms and into his bed, became a shade of demonic red; and his teeth transformed into murderous canines, sharp enough to easily tear into flesh and bone.

The young man chose to stay in the Lost Woods from then on, believing, perhaps correctly so, that nobody would accept a wolf-man among them as their own. He embraced a life of solitude, the wildlife his only companion and even then, the wild animals shunned him out of fear. He tried to cling to his humanity, something that gave him comfort, even once in a while stealing clothes from clueless wanderers to preserve his modesty whenever a transformation would damage the tatters he called clothing. He would prefer his human body over his animal one for a long time until the superior senses of the wolf helped him to hunt his food, or when its thick fur kept him warm during chilly nights.

He lost time of how many nights and days he had been spending in the woods, watched seasons pass with apathy, and wondered what pushed him to continue to hold on to a sad, cold life as this─ more wolf than man.

It was a day in autumn, after the leaves had already left the branches of the trees to gather on the ground, carpeting it in colours of red and yellow, when the Lady in Red appeared, cutting through his loneliness like a scythe through grass.

* * *

He burned and ached in a way it hadn't for a long time, his heart drumming in his chest and pulsing blood warming and exciting his body. She was here again─ the Lady in Red. Soul didn't know her name, only that she was beautiful. How long had it been that he had laid eyes upon a woman? He dubbed her the Lady in Red because her apparel was made up entirely of the colour, and even though it looked lovely on her, it made him snort at her stupidity for wearing a colour that drew the most attention.

Yet whenever she walked through the wretched forest with steady feet and a straight back, fearless and foolish, no wild animal approached her. She made his head spin and his heart clench with a painful familiarity, because he wanted to talk to her at the very least─ bed her at the very most.

It was beyond his grasp what a fine lady like her would want in a dark place like the Lost Woods, though he couldn't claim that her appearance was unwelcome. She was young, her face round and almost heart-shaped, her skin pale and unblemished, and her eyes the most magnificent shade of green he had ever seen. He could not see her hair; it was covered by a hood as red as her dress.

Her presence in the woods had restarted time for his human existence, and on the third day of his new existence he was watching her again. She was examining an oak tree, her small hand grazing the indents of sharp claws. Soul didn't know where the marks had come from, only that they hadn't been from him. Not that he cared─ there was a human girl there with him and the lack of human interaction in his life made his heart clench. Without thinking about his next move, he stepped out of the bushes he had been hiding in to watch her. He smoothed his hand over the filthy fabric of his stolen linen shirt.

Before he could say anything, she turned around sharply, green eyes flashing. Her voice cut through the silence of the night like a knife, cold and acrid, "Who's there?"

She barely flinched when she saw him, and the fact that she didn't run away and scream encouraged him more than it should have. Years and years of solitude had made him desperate, and he had forgotten what it was like to interact with a human.

He took a step forward, his hand reaching out. "Y-you..." The words of his language felt like syllables and sounds of a speech long forgotten, his mouth moving awkwardly, his lips trying to wrap around the patterns and pauses that used to come to him so naturally.

The woman took a cautious step back. "Who are you?" She was not afraid. She was not afraid of him.

He smiled, a smile full of sharp deadly canines. "You...you are v-very pretty."

Her eyes widened, but her stance remained defiant and untrusting. Her shoulders were squared, her fists clenched tightly, but in spite of this she looked calm and in control. "Thank you?" she said, unsure. "Who are you, mister? And I won't ask again. Answer me."

Soul took a deep breath, tried to recall the manners his mother had taught him. He made an awkward bow, placed his palm atop his heart and smiled mildly. "My name is...Soul," he said, the words coming to him more easily.

"I see," she said, sounding unimpressed. Her hood cast a shadow over her eyes and he couldn't tell what she was thinking, if she wanted to talk to him more. But she wasn't pushing him away! Maybe...maybe...she'd be his; maybe she'd want him too. The idea filled his heart with warmth and made his stomach flutter, his limbs jittery and eager for her skin. "If you don't mind, Sir, I would like to...keep working. I bid you a good day."

Oh no, he was going to lose her! He gulped heavily, panic clutching his reason. "B-but, wait!"

He didn't remember when he gave his feet the command to get so close to her - knew it was stupid of him - but her eyes were wide and green and beautiful, and she was warm and human and female and he missed it so so much.

"Please, _be good_ ," he growled, his clawed hand reaching out for her, sliding the hood down her head. He shuddered as his blood pulsed loudly, warmly in his veins. "I...I want─I will be good." He touched her shoulder, but didn't get any further before her hand was on his wrist. Foreign words came forth her mouth, her voice a sweet melodic sound, but then his body was hot, his bones scorching and his muscles snapping and churning, and suddenly he was looking up at her.

He opened his mouth to ask her what she had done, but he had no mouth; a muzzle that should be familiar, but was much much smaller than his fearsome wolf's snout, had replaced his lips. He looked down, small snowy paws with blunt claws greeting him. What had she done to him?

He barked pitifully, sounding like a newborn puppy instead of a fully grown wolf. What was this woman? What had she done to him?!

"Don't touch a lady without her permission," she said, eyes cold like steel.

* * *

Since having been bitten by the beast, Soul sought out the town. Wes would scold him so much if he found out, but Soul was a boy in a wolf's body; he was lonely and wanted his family, his brother. He returned to his family's estate, uncaring if he scared people away. His first visit had been a frightening experience, completely beyond what Soul had imagined the outcome to be.

It was a late evening in autumn and the streets were not as abandoned as he had hoped they'd be. They smelled of wet horses, of manure, of the guts thrown out on the streets from the butcher's stalls. His own breath stank of rotten flesh─ it was a struggle to inhale. He had never been to this part of London before, had never seen so much dirt and misery and filth. His nose was raw, the putrid smells violently assaulting his senses. He was shaky on his paws as passed a jumble of narrow and unlit passageways.

Though he was glad for the darkness of the sky, it wasn't enough to camouflage his vibrant white fur. People shrieked and yelled, and even the hounds avoided him as Soul passed the reek of decaying carcasses of dogs and cats and rats on the uneven, damp streets. He had never been to this part of London before, had never seen so much dirt and misery and filth.

He made a sharp turn left and reached the main street; this was familiar. He tried to remain in the shadows of the buildings. The main street smelled slightly less of decay than the narrow sidestreets with their long rows of houses with no windows and their dank latrines. The business of fat-boilers, glue-renderers, fell-mongers, tripe scrapers and dog-skinners together with residences and tenements and shops belched out thick clouds of black soot into the air.

His heart jumped into his throat when the familiar red brick house with its white doors and white window frames came into view, and his casual stride turned into an eager run. He let out a happy bark as he jumped over the fence and came to stand under the window that belonged to his brother's room. Soul's thick tongue might not have fit into his mouth anymore, but his bigger ears took in the slightest of sounds─ like the comforting tune of the violin, even his brother's breathing.

Wes would help him as he always did, but Soul was sure that, in return, he'd be scolded for causing his family so much trouble. But he was happy, happy to return. He barked and howled loudly, jumping in place and wanting to call out Wes' name.

Soul saw his brother's silhouette at the window, his heart pounding with glee. Wes pulled the window open and when he glanced down, Soul tried for his best smile. _It's me, Wes. Soul, your little brother._

Wes' face was pale, reminding Soul of the time when his older brother had been very sick five years ago, or the face he had made when their father had been injured during a hunting accident. His maroon eyes were wide and afraid as he let out a shocked yelp, closed the window, and shouted for his father. His brother's voice was shaky with fear and, even though Wes had every reason to fear him, his words still pierced through Soul's heart like a newly sharpened knife.

Soul's long ears flattened against his head as he whimpered sadly. Yes, a beast he was, but he was still Soul Evans, son of Lord Jonathan and Lady Cecelia Evans, younger brother of Wes Evans.

The front door opened with a bang, and his father stormed out with menacing strides as he readied his gun. No recognition was in Lord Jonathan's eyes, seeing nothing but a dangerous beast in front of him. Soul's mouth opened in a helpless bark, his claws digging into the grass below. Maybe he could manage to convince his father to stop and maybe he could make it clear that he was no threat, but his lost son.

His father shouted at him, fired a shot in the air and Soul flinched, yelping. But then he aimed his gun straight at him, his long bony finger twitching in readiness. Soul looked into his father's eyes again, the last time it should be, and the lord's surety faltered, his flaxen eyebrows furrowing as he calmly regarded the wolf, but then his face hardened, his lips curving into a cold scowl as his grasp on the gun became firm again.

Disheartened and scared for his life, Soul took off quickly, easily making the jump over the stone fence again. The panicky shouts of his family still rang in his ears and echoed in his soul. His eyes watered as he nearly ran into a carriage, the horses whinnying anxiously.

Everything rushed by him in a blur until he found himself in the Lost Woods. The night was cold and silent, but nobody was attacking him here.

From that day on, Soul had come back to his family every day. He would be careful nobody saw him as he perched behind the stony fence and watched his family moving on with their lives. Each day he would come back, he would see his father pass away from tuberculosis, he would see his brother marrying a fine lady, he would see his nieces and nephews years later, and he would see his mother die from old age. Soul came back every day until everyone was gone, dead from sickness or old age. Everyone but Wes.

* * *

Soul had never felt this cold. His fur was too thin, his body too small, too weak, his senses not as sharp as he was used to. The harsh wind blew roughly as he huddled between bushes and trees, trying to ward of the bitter cold. That woman was a witch! Soul did not know what sorcery she had used on him, but he'd make her pay.

He growled to himself, dull red eyes focusing on nothing in particular. But then his small ears picked up the sound of footsteps. They were heavy and fast, loudly stomping on pines and fallen leaves. It couldn't be the Lady in Red. Before he could do so much as investigate who or what it was, the source of all the noise revealed himself...itself.

Soul's eyes widened with fear as he yelped, his short legs shaking not because of the cold. Maybe the thing used to be a man once like Soul himself, but right now he didn't know what to compare it to. It vaguely resembled a beast: his teeth were long and likely sharper than Soul's own, his back was hunched, his arms too long for his body. His mouth opened wide in a grin that stretched unnaturally long and should have split his cheeks.

"A dog?" he rasped, breaths hard and fast, eyes a hazy yellow. "You are no dog, I see your soul." He laughed, making a grab for him, but Soul reacted quickly, running for all his new legs were worth. But the beast-man was faster, taller, his limbs stronger and more efficient. Fallen boughs and pointy stones scraped against Soul, littering him with cuts and bruises even before the beast had the chance to inflict any pain on him. The man made a long swipe with his arms, his deadly nails digging into Soul's tiny back and throwing him against a tree. The breath was harshly knocked out his lungs, making him howl and whimper and pant.

"You'll taste good, dog. Your soul smells good."

Soul closed his eyes, put his paws over his head, and waited for the finishing blow to come. At least he wouldn't be lonely anymore. But the pain never came and he chanced to open one eye, only to see the beast frozen, his hand raised above his head. The stench of foul blood permeated through the wet, musky forest air and it was then that Soul saw the point of a blade protruding from the man's stomach. The beast-man let out a silent scream, his grin wiped away from his ugly, rotten face. He lost his balance as the blade was pulled out, falling to the muddy ground in a heap of filth and stank and bile.

She was there in all her red glory, holding a scythe in her hands that looked too big to be carried around by someone so small, let alone to be swung around so effortlessly. His shock wearing off, Soul missed how the dead body disintegrated to leave behind a red glowing orb, he did not notice the lady approaching him as his pain returned full force, his consciousness wavering until he closed his eyes to welcome pleasant darkness.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was how he had hands and legs and a human face. The second thing he noticed was the searing pain in his back and the uncomfortable position he was in, lying on his stomach. But that detail was a minor thing compared to the pleasant fact that he was lying on a bed. How long had it been since he had been in a comfortable bed like this? He closed his eyes again, relishing in the feel of the soft mattress and silken sheets around him.

A cool hand ran through his hair and came to rest on the back of his neck, jolting him out of his drowsiness. He flinched and attempted to stand, but the hand pushed gently against his back, urging him down.

"You shouldn't move so much. You've been injured."

He wrenched his eyes open, his lips pulling back into a guttural snarl. That voice- it belonged to the wretched witch! Ignoring her advice, Soul pulled back from her touch, rolled to his side and fell off the bed with a thud. Pushing the agony in his back to the back of his mind, he growled lowly as he stood up, nude and weak-limbed.

"It was your fault I was injured. What did you do to me, you witch?"

The woman blinked at him dubiously, not leaving her place at the edge of the bed. "I defended myself," she said, sniffing mildly.

"I did not attack you!"

Her eyes narrowed. "Why, aren't you forgetful. I told you I wanted to be left alone but you tell me to wait and push me against a tree and touch me, muttering things I couldn't understand. So, indeed you attacked me."

"I─" words of indignant anger died in his throat, his body deflating with shame when he recalled his actions. _Be good._ The words rang in his mind, echoing coldly within his heart. "I...did."

She harrumphed, sticking up her nose haughtily. "At least you accept your mistake. And I won't apologize for putting that spell on you, even though I had not meant to turn you into a puppy."

"What?" He let her wordlessly lead him back to the bed and he sat down carefully. She was unperturbed by his nudity, her eyes focused solely on his face, and Soul's cheeks flared with something akin to embarrassment- something he hadn't felt for so long.

"You were just meant to turn into a small boy for a few hours, not into a puppy. I assume the spell reacted differently to you because you are a lycan."

Soul blinked, confused, yet the term had a certain familiarity to it. It reminded him of Wes as he mulled over thick books, his keen eyes taking every piece of information in. Wes, who had been by his side until he died. Wes who had helped throughout all those years to...to...

She let out a sigh, made him lie on his stomach again and covered his lower half with a soft quilt. "A beast, a werewolf, a lycan. Terms that all apply to you and your curious state."

He didn't think he understood her entirely, only that she knew what he was and she had yet to show an ounce of fear towards him. She was a peculiar woman. He noted that her hair was an ashen blond in the light of the oil lamp on the nightstand. It reflected nicely in her eyes and brought out the shape of her cheekbones, casting slight shadows over her delicate face. Soon he found himself being lulled into a warm state of drowsiness, watching the woman in red as she tended to his wound.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice drunk with fatigue. She dressed his injury meticulously, her hands soothing and cool, and applied a cold balm that made goose bumps rise on his skin.

"I'm Maka, Maka Albarn," she said absentmindedly, but her gaze was focused on his back. She patted the bandages gently, smoothing over hard skin and firm muscle that was already knitting itself back together. He swallowed his spit. "And your assessment about me was almost correct. I am no witch, but I am a sorceress."

Soul snorted loudly, burying his face in the pillow beneath his head. "I didn't know there was a difference." Granted, he didn't know a lot about the world. He wasn't as alarmed as he ought to be probably, but then again, he could shift his shape into a wolf's and decided that as long as she didn't try to turn him into a puppy again, he'd remain calm. She was helping him right now, wasn't she?

"Of course there is a difference," she said huffishly, putting her hands onto her lap. He regarded her from the corner of his eyes, intrigued. "A witch's magic is innate, a sorceress has to study and work for her magic!"

He closed his eyes. "I see."

"What about you, Mr. um─"

"Evans. My name is Soul Evans."

"How long have you been able to turn into a wolf, Mr. Evans?"

"I...don't know," he admitted truthfully. He didn't even know how much time had passed since that fateful day. He just knew his family had died and that he was very likely the only Evans left. He told her this and she furrowed her brows, but there was something in her eyes that looked like pity and he wanted to embrace and strangle her for it. He did not need anyone's pity, but he had longed for human touch, even just a conversation. The words came to him much easier, he didn't stumble upon his sentences; he could talk freely and he felt more alive than he had in years.

"Do you know of anything important that happened when you were turned? Do you...perhaps recall who the king was?"

Soul pondered about her question for a moment, trying to lift this veil of not-knowing from his mind. There were a few names that rang a bell; he knew he had lived in London and there was a king, and he recalled his father talking about a rebellion or was it a revolution?

"It was George," he croaked out.

"Which George?"

He shrugged. "I think it was George II or III. And-and, yes! There was a revolution in the americas, protests in the colonies and such..."

"The revolution?" she asked suspiciously, but her voice had softened and he could clearly hear the pity in it. "It has been about a hundred years since the revolution ended."

* * *

"What was that monster that attacked me?" he asked hours later, propped against the headboard of the bed despite Maka's disapproval. His back didn't hurt anymore- he was used to having his wounds healed quickly, even if he had never been injured to this degree before. Maka suggested that it was his lycanthropy that accelerated the healing process.

"It was an afreet," she replied simply as if it should be obvious to him. She threw away the blood soaked bandages and washed her hands in a bin. She had taken her hood off; it had been more precisely a hooded cape that had been covering her shoulders. Her dress was low cut, her shoulders and most of her arms bared, her slight breasts pushed up by the corset shaping her lithe waist. The skirt of her dress was scandalously short, baring her calves and ankles.

His eyes roamed her appreciatively up and down; what he wouldn't give to see her without her dress and preferably in bed with him. Soul shook his head. Now was no time to think about bedding her.

"Would you mind elaborating on what an afreet is, Ms. Albarn?"

She dried her hands on a cloth and sat down on her prefered spot on the edge of the bed, placing her hands primly in her lap. Her demeanour and speech contrasted starkly with her apparel, which reminded Soul more of a daughter of joy than of a lady like she behaved. But even if his mind was muddled and unclear, he knew that telling a woman that was not polite.

"Afreets used to be human once, but their souls were consumed by evil. They feed on the pure souls of innocents and the...agency I work for is tasked with stopping them," she said smartly. "We were contracted by the Metropolitan Police Service and asked for help with a series of murders in the city. At first I believed the one that attacked you to be the culprit, but he was disoriented and not clinical in his approach as I was expecting. He was weak and more harmless than the person he worked for." She stood up, arranging different vials and flasks that held numerous, colourful liquids into a big leather pouch. He watched her intently, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

"What's that... and what do you mean by 'more harmless'?" he mumbled tiredly, and he did not know what she meant with Metropolitan Police Service. Upon thinking over it further, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know what a more dangerous monster was like.

"You mean this?" she asked, holding one of the smaller flasks up. The liquid inside looked like clear water, unlike the many colourful little vials there. "This is a shrinking potion," she said flippantly, before she deposited it onto the vanity, right in front of the mirror. "The afreet I disposed of was lusting more after the souls than anything else; the one that is still on the loose enjoys the killing. He targets women- usually prostitutes- and as long as they suffer he does not care about their souls."

Soul gulped, sweat beading on his forehead. "How are you going to find him?"

"I can usually sense souls, but this one can conceal his. I don't know how he does it. My guess is that he either has the help of a witch who uses soul protect, or- as rare as it is- he is a witch himself. Or should I say warlock?"

She stretched her arms high above her head and let out a quiet moan that was enough to make the fine hairs at the back of his neck rise. "You can use this house as long as you need to recuperate," she said, tipping her head at him as she retrieved her cloak from a small dusty hook from the wall and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I shall take my leave."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"I am going to catch the murderer, of course. I might not be able to sense him now, but I can still look for clues in the city and ask potential witnesses."

He had seen what she was capable of, had witnessed his with his very own eyes how the blade had pierced that monster mercilessly, but it still didn't settle well with him to let her go on her own. It might be gratitude or his upbringing and his mother's words ringing in his mind. _Never let a lady walk on her own at night._ Soul struggled to his feet, shook the slight pain of his closing wounds off, and looked her straight in the eye.

_Be good,_ he told himself, but much to his shame, altruism was not his only reason to help.

"Let me help you," he said lowly, clenching his fists.

She raised her chin and her eyes sparked with that glint that had captivated him since the first time he had looked at her. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Sir. I don't need a chaperone, but I thank you regardless." There was an edge to her voice, telling him she was insulted rather than grateful, but Soul would not budge.

"I can help you. My senses are sharp, and while I may not be able to sense souls, I can perhaps track the murderer. Let this be my apology for attacking you in the forest."

She let out a snort that was unbefitting of a lady, the corners of her mouth twitched into a slight smile. "I don't need an apology like that," she said, her smile widening. "But I do see the possible merits of your assistance."

* * *

Wes had grown old. His youngest child had died from a rabid dog's attack- the poor boy never stood a chance. Wes' wife was inconsolable, locking herself to her room and refusing to meet the world outside. Soul hadn't been there to see the attack and wished he'd been able to protect the boy. Wes had named the boy Soul, and maybe he was biased, but Little Soul had been his favorite nephew, even if he had looked nothing like him. He'd resembled more his mother, with his dark hair and green eyes.

Soul followed Wes quietly, making sure to take refuge in the shadows of the buildings. He avoided carriages as the horses were easily frightened and would immediately give his presence away. The stench of dead bodies and moist soil became stronger and stronger, but Wes kept moving on, eyes vacant. It was the second month in a row that Wes sought out the cemetery; he'd pray at his son's grave, place flowers on the moist earth, and stand there and watch.

It pained Soul's heart. He wished he could comfort his brother, but he knew the moment Wes saw him he'd scream for his death. At first, the thought upset Soul, but now he was used to it and understood. He doubted he would have acted differently if he had been in Wes' position.

This time, however, Wes didn't remain silent at the grave. His words were tired and weary, his shoulders were hunched, his eyes dull. He retraced the name of his little son on the tombstone, smiled sadly, and whispered all his regrets, telling the unmoving earth how he had failed to protect his brother and now his son suffered the same fate. It was cruel irony that they would be buried side by side, their names identical.

Soul tried not to howl and bark at his brother; he wanted to help so much. He had seen Wes living with the burden of his death and Soul just wanted to tell him that he was alive. Maybe he was not well, but he was alive and that it had been Soul's own fault for being careless and drunk and incapable of defending himself.

"Who's there?"

Wes turned around quickly, eyes narrowed. Soul stood up straight, his paws digging into the moist earth beneath. Maybe he had been too loud in his beastly lament. He cursed himself to hell and back, growling lowly. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he cautiously stepped out of his hiding place. Wes let out a gasp, trepidation on his face, leaving him frozen on the spot. Soul approached him, undeterred, and licked at Wes' shoes, nudging against his long legs. He could feel his brother shiver from the cold or from fear- from both Soul could tell.

Soul raised his head, seeking out his brother's eyes. Wes didn't run; he didn't look scared anymore and something like familiarity flashed in his gaze. He threw his head back and chuckled, his words bitter, and for a moment Soul was afraid his brother had gone mad.

"I must be mad," Wes said, dropping to one knee. He hesitantly placed his hand on Soul's head, petting him carefully. "For a moment I believed you to be my brother. But my brother is long dead and he was not a wolf." Wes gave him a grim smile, lips pressing into a thin line as he scratched him behind his ear.

Soul barked happily, nuzzling against his brother's palm. He wished he could speak, wished he could tell Wes that he was indeed his little brother. Soul turned his head towards to the gravestone of his nephew, knowing Wes would glance there too. Next to Little Soul's grave was another one- one that was bigger, one that made the bones freeze in Soul's beast body. The tombstone was worn and weathered from the years, but there was no mistaking the name that was elegantly engraved in the marble.

It was his name, his date of birth and his alleged date of death. It ripped a low growl from his throat, but it sounded pathetic and vulnerable, nothing like the horrifying beast that others feared. He padded softly towards the grave, sniffed at the earth there and shook his head, letting out a bark, and turned back to his brother.

Wes shook his head, his fingers gripping his white hair roughly, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. "I am truly going mad," he muttered to himself, but his eyes were on Soul, the wolf, the beast, the animal, the not-human. "S-soul?" he choked out, voice small and desperate, and Soul made his best attempt of a nod.

Wes' arms were around him, his tears hot on his fur as he wailed for the family that was lost.


	2. The Brother

Soul gripped Maka's arm tightly, his knuckles turning white and he felt a little uneasy that he might leave a bruise on her beautiful, unblemished skin with the firmness of his grip. For the moment though, he couldn't bring himself to stop because the carriage was moving! Even when he had seen the carriage halting in front of them, bigger than any carriage Soul had ever seen, he couldn't believe how it moved. He supposed the term carriage was misapplied, but he didn't know what else to call this contraption that could hold so many people inside.

Maka eyed him suspiciously, trying to pry his hand off with as much discretion as possible. Other gentlemen were already looking at them, wary and ready to come to the defense of a lady in distress.

"Mr. Evans, would you mind?" she hissed, smiling slightly at an elderly man who asked her if she needed help.

"M-maka," Soul said, gulping hard, sweat beading at his temple as he forgot all about his manners. He leaned in closely to her, earning him another array of scandalized gasps and glares. "The carriage is moving without horses!"

She blinked and forgetting all about his clutch on her arm, she muffled her quiet laughter behind a dainty hand. He felt a bit stupid being laughed at not so openly, but though he may be behaving in a way that was unbecoming of a lord's son, he had spent about a hundred years in that wretched forest, passing by all developments of his race.

Maka caught herself quickly when she saw his disgruntled face. He let go of her arm as she appeasingly whispered, "That's why they're railways. They don't need horses to move. They derive their power to move from their steam engine."

At his blank stare, Maka smiled, her eyes glinting knowingly. "It is fueled by burning coal or wood to produce steam in a boiler- or steam generator you could say- and that drives the steam engine."

Soul let out a chuckle, his heart heavy in his chest. "I think there is a lot I have to learn."

"I am sure you will quickly read up on everything that is new. You seem like a well-educated man."

"I can't complain about the education I received. My father was a lord, so I knew my numbers and was taught to read."

"Ah, I should have known from the way you speak that you are highborn. Who was your father if you don't mind me asking?"

"He was Lord Jonathan Evans," Soul said proudly, smiling fondly as his eyes glazed over with memories. "He was a kind man and tolerated a lot of my careless behavior. My mother was more strict."

"Did you live in London back then?" Maka asked curiously.

"We had a house in London, yes- in Mayfair- but we spent a lot of time in our country estatea as well. Perhaps you have heard of it. Maybe… maybe I could go see it again," his voice dropped. He folded his hands on his lap, a knot in his throat as he wondered if his old house was still there.

"If… if we have solved this case, I would gladly help you to find your house again," she said earnestly and his chest fluttered with gratitude, making him smile.

"What about you? You're from the Americas from what I have gathered."

She nodded. "Yes, indeed. I am from Nevada to be exact."

"Nevada?"

"Ah yes, it became a state in 1864. It is in the west of America, but it is mostly a desert and too hot to be comfortable." She sighed quietly only to stand up with a woosh of her short skirt. "We're here."

Soul was still a bit nervous when he got out of the 'railways' as Maka called it, but this time he managed to get it done without shaky legs.

Wherever she went, Maka had everyone's eyes on her. Soul couldn't blame the people, but he couldn't understand their rude scoffs at Maka either, their disdain so open. That was not how he had been raised to treat a woman. The crisp air had many people shivering, huddling deeper into their coats, but Maka walked unflinchingly despite her short dress.

The cobbled streets were brightly lit and it it took him a few seconds tear his gaze away from all the shiny lights. Before he'd been bitten, streets had been dark; he remembered the fog, which was no less thick and foul now, permeating through the air, drenching the sky with blackness. He recalled the time when he was writing a letter to a lady that had caught his eyes, how he'd needed a candle even in daylight to be able to see the paper and his quill.

"We're here," Maka said, her breath foggy in the cold. His eyes caught the street sign; _Great Scotland Yard_ it read. The building was not imposingly tall- merely a simple brick house surrounded by a fence, a large clock high above at its center.

He was like her absent-minded assistant standing at her side, not knowing much. The people inside eyed them warily, most of them gentlemen dressed uniformly in blue and armed with wooden truncheons. Soul couldn't exactly blame them with Maka's apparel and him with his demonic face. Maka had given him clothes that were in the house she was staying in. He wore a waistcoat and pants that seemed too loose for his hips. He covered his hair with a hat, but there wasn't much he could do for his eyes aside from keeping his gaze down.

They sought out the police surgeon first; Maka was granted immediately entrance when she showed the officers a badge that looked curiously like a skull. Soul hadn't even been aware what he was getting involved with before it was too late. The surgeon was a polite gentleman, immaculately dressed with a quaint smile on his face and greying hair. He gave Maka a surprised look and left it with that before he lead them to his office.

"Please, have a seat," he said, pointing to the chairs across his desk. "First, I cannot thank you enough, Ms. Albarn, for travelling such a long way from America to help us with this case."

Maka raised her hand. "You don't have to thank me, Sir. I am glad to be able to assist you with these horrible murders, but please, tell me all you know."

The man nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. His fingers were trembling, Soul realized and his eyes were were a pale blue, sunken and tired. "All five murders were committed in Whitechapel: the first in Buck's Row, the second in Hanbury Street, the third in Berner's Street and the fourth in Mitre Square. These murders all took place outside, while the fifth- the one on Dorset Street- was done in a small room."

He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Soul didn't know how old the man was, only that he looked very old, but perhaps that had to do more with the grisly murders of these poor women than anything else.

"In all these cases there weren't any signs of struggle from the victims. I assume that the attacks happened too quickly for them to react. Another common point is that their throats were cut first, before the murderer proceeded to mutilate the bodies. The body of the fifth victim, Ms. Kelly, showed the most mutilation."

Soul clutched the edge of his seat, his stomach churning as the man pulled a...a painting from the drawer of his desk. It was smaller than any paintings he had seen and he to avert his eyes quickly, bile rising in his throat. He might have hunted for deer and game whenever he was a beast, but seeing the mutilated corpse of a poor woman, he did not need.

Maka made a small thoughtful hum, brows furrowed. "And you're certain that it was the same man who killed these women?"

Just how often had Maka been confronted with things like that? She was calm about this matter- unsettlingly calm.

The man nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"So the murderer was probably not disturbed when he was with the fifth victim. It might have helped that they were behind closed doors, whereas with the other four he probably had to make a quick escape before somebody found him."

"Yes, that's what I also believe to be the case."

"But," Maka muttered, rubbing her chin, "It seems unlikely to me that nobody heard Ms. Kelly. When they were in a small room as you said, don't you think it is strange nobody heard any screams? And if you say that it was because the victim was immediately dead, that raises the question how nobody noticed a man drenched in blood leaving the room when the corpse had been mutilated nearly beyond recognition."

"His hands must have been covered by gloves and the bedsheets were splatted and saturated with the victim's blood, indicating that he might have covered the body with the sheet to keep the blood away from his clothes."

"Is it possible to narrow the people who could be possible suspects down? Do you think it could have been a doctor? Somebody who knew the human anatomy?"

"No, I doubt he even had the technical knowledge of a butcher. He must have been, however, a man of great strength who used a sharp knife to commit these atrocities. I believe the knife to be about six inches long and about an inch of width."

After questioning the man about other details, Soul and Maka bid him goodbye, stepping into the murky London streets. The narrow street made Soul nervous, and he let out a relieved sigh when they made a turn into a much brighter street. It didn't take them long until they reached the Thames, which was narrower than he remembered. The bridges crossing the river hadn't been there before, and road on the bank they were walking hadn't, either. It seemed the city had become even dirtier than he could recall. The smell of unwashed bodies and gas permeated through the air.

The luscious gardens and grassy banks made way for grey cobblestone streets. The iron tyres of carriages were loud, bumping into potholes, the horses' hooves clattering and their whinnying only drowned out by the crying of costermongers for their wares. Sooty children in their tattered and dirty clothes were mingling between the older pedestrians. Some of them were barefoot, and others had shoes that were barely held together, their grimy toes poking out of cheap leather.

The further they were from the building of the Metropolitan Police, the dirtier the streets became, with many people mingling about. There was a vague familiarity to the streets, or perhaps just

shadowy memories of the roads he believed to have walked on at one point in his life.

They walked silently along the river as his gaze shifted towards her and he was once again struck by her loveliness. The people that passed her regarded her with curiosity or scorn- poisonous words that Soul's ears easily picked up. Maka, however, remained unperturbed; maybe she couldn't hear them or merely opted to ignore the people's disdain.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked, eying a group of young men warily. They were looking at Maka in a way that Soul didn't like, tempting him to open his mouth wide and show them his impressive canines.

"I want to question the residents in the lodging house in Dorset Street; the last victim was found in one of the rooms. Surely, someone must have seen something. I am also doubtful of the surgeon's assessment of the murderer."

"Huh? What he said sounded quite plausible to me."

She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, lips firmly set into a line. "I agree. Most of what he said was plausible. However, I doubt that the murderer had no technical knowledge of anatomy. The mutilations on the bodies were very complex, and specific organs were removed relatively fast and clean. I do not think that someone who is unfamiliar with the human anatomy could do such a thing, so I suspect that it could have been, indeed, a doctor, or perhaps a butcher or even a keen hunter."

"It seems our visit to the surgeon was unnecessary," he mumbled, amused.

"The Agency and the Metropolitan Police had already exchanged mail over the matter, so I am well informed about the details, but I still wanted to be briefed in incase new evidence had been found."

He gave her a friendly grin, yet again delighted that she didn't flinch away from his teeth and even returned the gesture with a slight smile of her own. "It appears to me that you are more competent than the 'police' here." It was odd to use that word when he was used to constables and the yeomanry patrolling dim streets.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, ducking her head, her hood casting a thin stripe of a shadow across her eyes. "The police are doing well considering that the murders have not been committed by an entirely human hand."

"Is there anything I can do? I promised you I could track the murderer with my sense of smell, but if I don't have anything from him, I won't be of much use, and even then there are so many people here I am not sure if I can track him."

She tapped her chin with a lean finger, making a thoughtful hum. "There are letters that were submitted to the Central News Agency, to Mr. George Lusk and to Dr. Thomas Openshaw, but their validity is shaky at best. Most of them don't thrive on factual accuracy, but on sensationalism. However, there was one that _might_ have been sent by the killer himself."

"Do you suggest we retrieve this letter then?"

Maka shook her head. "At first I'd like to question witnesses before we do that, and as you pointed out, with so many people mingling in the streets it might be difficult to track the murderer."

Soul let out a sigh, tipping the rim of his hat further down. "I'm sorry I can't be more of help to you."

Be good. He wanted to be good, wanted to help her, but it seemed he was the only one doomed to be on the receiving end of other people's charity. He didn't want to sound ungrateful, as he appreciated her company and her bravery and strength that had saved his life, but he disliked the feeling of uselessness.

"Don't be," she said, her hand warm against his elbow. Red eyes sought out hers as she gave his arm a little squeeze. Her eyes reminded him of the green of oak leaves in the forest. "I am still grateful for your offer, and we may have to resort to the letters if questioning the witnesses should prove to be fruitless." Her hand lingered on his sleeve for longer than could be considered appropriate.

Whitechapel Road was a lively place, not as squalid as he was made to believe, though little dark and narrow alleys still branched out into their own dusky worlds, a forest of long rows of houses without windows and barely a space to breathe in. The walk to the inn was filled with idle chatter between them.

Soul told her about his family, his brother in particular, ignoring the sharp pangs in his chest. He pretended that the sudden stinging in his eyes was because of the smoke in the air- pretended not to notice Maka's curious gaze on him. She, in return, told him more about Nevada, about the town where she resided, called Death City.

"Why that name?" he asked, a flaxen eyebrow raised.

Maka shrugged noncommittally, keen eyes taking in the surroundings. "It is not because many people die there. I think it is because the founder of the town goes by the name of Lord Death."

"Lord... _Death_?"

"I have come to accept it as normal and I tend to forget how...morbid it might seem to others," she said sheepishly, wiping a stray bang of blond from her face. Soul followed that movement faithfully, wondered how soft her hair would feel. He'd like to touch her and maybe take a subtle sniff of her ashen hair, the beast's blood pulsing in his veins at the thought, but he restrained himself rather easily.

There was something very calming about her presence, something that made him think twice before he spoke or acted on something.

* * *

Soul disliked Jack McCarthy the moment he saw him. He was the landlord of some of the lodging houses in Dorset street, including the one where Ms. Mary Kelly had been found dead.

"Good afternoon, Mr. McCarthy," Maka said, smiling charmingly at the bored man that greeted them.

"Hello, madame." He gave them a curt nod, studied Maka's dress with a tilt of his head as his mouth curved into a scowl. He was a pudgy man with an untended mustache. His head was small and partly bald, his hands fidgety. "What do you want?"

Maka frowned, but her voice remained pleasant. "I have a few questions regarding the murder of Ms. Kelly in November and─"

"I've already told everything I know to Scotland Yard. I have nothin' more to say," he muttered sharply.

"I understand, sir, but you see Scotland Yard needs help and I need all the details you can disclose."

"No, I don't want anything to do with them murders anymore! Leave." Meaty fingers pointed shakily towards the door, sweat beading on the man's forehead.

"But─"

"I said enough! Get out! It's harlots like you that the killer wants, not a simple man like me. I...I don't want to be killed too. Just leave, please." The man's voice became a near whimper and Soul would have felt pity for him if he hadn't insulted Maka.

"That is no way to speak to a lady," Soul said lowly, the tips of his fingers tingling as his claws threatened to spread out. The man had the decency to look ashamed for the briefest second, but before he could say anything- apologize or even hurl another insult at them- Maka cut in.

She placed an appeasing hand on Soul's arm. "Let us go, Soul. Perhaps this fine gentleman will find another day to seek us out and be more cooperative. Consult Scotland Yard again if you are ready, sir."

The man's head jerked up and even Soul couldn't hold back a surprised gasp. He followed Maka outside the inn, his blood roaring in his ears as he clenched his fists and shot the man a withering glare over his shoulder.

"I was expecting you to be more persuasive than this, Maka," was the first thing Soul said.

"That man was not going to be of help regardless of how much I begged him. He is afraid, Soul; he thinks the murderer will target him if he becomes too involved with the case. His soul was trembling."

He sighed and haphazardly made an attempt to adjust his hat. "Perhaps so, but he had no right to insult you like this." He scoffed, eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched into a bitter imitation of a smile as they made their way through narrow, tunnel-like alleys.

"Does it surprise you that he insulted me? I am sure you have noticed the way people have been looking at me. It was only a matter of time someone voiced what what he has been thinking when he saw my dress."

His brows furrowed. "I have noticed the way they have been looking at you, but calling you names like that is not how a lady should be addressed and─"

Maka let out a giggle, but her eyes remained cold. "It is alright. I was hoping to catch people's attention that way."

"Pardon?"

"This is not how I usually dress, I must admit─" she stepped over a reeking pothole at the last moment, scrunching up her nose, before she looked back at him. "I do like to dress in red, but my dresses tend to cover more skin. I was hoping I'd attract the murderer's attention and dispose of him more quickly this way."

"Ah! I understand, but don't you think that my presence might dissuade the killer from going after you?" Even if it might slow down her investigations, he didn't think he'd be able to live with the thought of the murderer targeting her. He hoped using her as bait would never be necessary. He pulled the rim of his hat lower, biting his lip, lest he voice his thoughts aloud. Maka would not appreciate his words. She was an unusual woman; a fighter who only relied on herself and didn't particularly need his assistance. His mother would have surely disapproved of him associating with such a 'wild' child, preferring to see him in the company of well-raised ladies with proper manners and on the lookout for fitting husbands. Or perhaps his mother would have been curious about this woman because as much as his mother was strict about propriety, she also had had a sense for adventure as much as it had been allowed for a woman of her standing.

"Maybe. Unless he sees us going separate ways."

Soul let out a gruff noise, similar to a bark, earning him an inquisitive look from her. "You said you like to dress in red mostly?" Resisting the urge to slap himself for such an inelegant shift in topic, he kept his eyes straight ahead, trying to avoid as much as possible the filth on the road. She made a quiet hum.

"Indeed. It has become a trademark of mine. People tend to call me the Red Sorceress because of my red dresses, but this kind of dress─" she slid a hand over the skirt, playing with the black lace at the bottom, "─isn't exactly what suits me."

"Oh?" His eyes roamed up her body up and down before he was caught by her forceful stare and he had to shove his rationality back into his mind. "I think you look quite lovely in the dress," he said thickly, genuinely.

Despite the dimness of the street, he caught her blush and it made his skin prickle, his body wracking with a subtle shudder. The smack against his arm pulled him out of his second revery and an apology was quick to rise in his mouth, but her face didn't display any open animosity, so he settled for a loud sigh and a slump of his shoulders instead.

"You're such a flatterer. I am sure you have seduced many a young lady to your bed with your sweet words." There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice, her sweet smile a stark contrast. The odd moment only lasted for a second before the tension shifted back and Maka's eyes gleamed with her determination.

"Let's go. We have other people to interrogate."

* * *

Their investigations continued into the hours of the night. A light sheen of fog had gathered in the streets and the temperature had dropped considerably. He offered Maka his coat, but she stubbornly declined. They interrogated the prostitutes who were roaming the streets of Whitechapel, but most of them either didn't know anything or were good at pretending not to know much.

One of them, however- a girl far too young to be outside to lure men in- was slightly more cooperative.

"It's not the first time something like this happened, ma'am," she said coolly. She had a pretty face, but her teeth were yellowed and dirty, her hair greasy. "We girls on the streets always get beaten, but nobody cares. The less there are of us, the better for them rich bastards."

Maka hesitantly patted her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mary. I will try to help you the best I can."

"You should go back to your home, ma'am, and don't bother. It's dangerous." Hazel eyes took in Soul. "And marry your man before he gets you with child. A friend had to leave hers at an orphanage and her parents threw her out into the streets."

Soul and Maka exchanged a look that was equal parts embarrassment and equal parts pity for the young girl. Maka blushed lightly and turned away, but didn't bother correcting the girl either.

"Did you see anything, Mary? A strange man perhaps? Someone who went into that inn with Ms Kelly."

The girl's lips curled into an empty smile, her eyes glazed over. "There're always strange men. I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know nothing. But maybe you could ask Grandmother. Nobody knows Whitechapel like she does."

"Grandmother?" Maka asked, her head tilted to the side. And there it was again; the calculative spark in those deep green eyes that made him question how he'd delude himself into thinking she'd need his help in any way. This woman had seen more than he could have ever had. She had slain a monster that had looked like it had escaped the fiery pits of hell with nothing but a few effortless-looking flicks of her dainty hands.

"Yes, Grandmother's house is close to the inn. I reckon you ask her all your questions, but she should be asleep by now. You better not disturb her now; she's a frail woman," she replied with a mild frown aimed at them.

"Are you living with your grandmother, Ms. Mary?" Soul questioned, speaking for the first time since Maka had exchanged words with the girl.

"She's not my grandmother, but everyone calls her by that. I live in Thrawl Street closeby." She shrugged, a warm, sincere smile gracing her lips. The corners of her eyes crinkled, washing away the dullness in them. "She's very kind to us. She sometimes makes us tea in the winter and gives us warm clothes and sometimes she gives us money, too, so we can buy something nice." Her smile widened and something ached in Soul's chest at the sight.

What was it that brought such a young girl onto the streets? Maybe she was an orphan? Or perhaps her parents weren't able to feed another mouth and had to make her leave? Did she still have family? Did Mary have any siblings, any brothers and sisters? She seemed quite strong and valiant for someone who had nothing left. He'd never had a sister, but if he ever had, he'd have made sure to protect her with his life. Memories of Wes flashed through his mind, of when Soul had last seen him: an old man, skin yellowed, eyes that had once been so lively sunken and hollow, yet had a smile for Soul until he left this world. Soul took a shuddering breath, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes.

_Be good._

"Thank you for your help, Mary." Maka squeezed the girl's shoulder, smiling slightly. "We'll talk to...Grandmother tomorrow then and─"

"Here, please take this," Soul said gruffly, awkwardly pushing his hand into the large pocket of his coat. He pulled out a few coins that had been there before he put it on. He thrust his arm out tensely and placed the money into Mary's hand. She blinked dumbfoundedly, looking questioningly at Maka before she took a step towards him.

Maka's face blanched and then turned a curious shade of red as her eyes narrowed into small slits of blazing green venom.

"It's very late, Mister, and I wanted to go home, but if you're giving me this much I'll make an exception for you," she said uncertainly, her eyes drifting towards Maka again, before she added in a quieter voice, "But I'm not sure if your lady approves. Maybe you should come again...when she's not with you?"

It took him a few seconds before her words rang within his mind with all their meaning attached to them. "No, you misunderstood!" he said hastily, wincing at Maka's deep glower. He didn't even need to look at her to feel the hellfire of her glare aimed against the back of his head. "I… I don't want anything from you, Ms Mary. Just take the money. I thought… you might need it."

"Oooh, thank you, Mister!" She beamed up at him, giving him a such a ridiculously large smile that Soul, in spite of the mortification in his bones, grinned back at her. The girl faltered slightly when she saw his teeth, but shrugged it off quickly and made a small bow, thanking him again, and disappeared into the darkness of the night.

With a staggering turn of his head, he glanced at Maka, whose face had gone back to normal from what he could tell. Her features were schooled into calm neutrality. It was with a wordless agreement that they made it back to her house in the outskirts of the city. He followed her quietly, watching the red hood on her head being ruffled by the slight breeze.

"Did you honestly assume that I had an ulterior motive when I was giving Ms Mary the money?" he asked suddenly, wincing at how his voice seemed to echo back at them through the hollow alley. He didn't know why he was asking her this, why her opinion should matter in this regard, but he felt the pressing need to amend the previous awkwardness between them.

"I, ah, might have thought that yes. You are a man after all and why shouldn't you─" she made a sharp turn, the skirt of her dress billowing around her. "Soul!" She pushed him out of the way, his back connecting roughly with damp cobblestones as the hiss of a long blade pierced through the air. Liquid crimson splattered against the walls and his breath staggered in his lungs as his heart stopped beating for a second. He gasped.

"Maka!"

* * *

"Soul? Are you there?" Wes whispered, glancing left and right as he fought to keep the trepidation in his bones down.

The wind was howling like a lament, flitting through the naked boughs and branches of the tall trees. The sun was setting, basking the Lost Woods in an eerie shade of dim purple. Noises- barks and howls, screeches and loud chirps- amplified as the creatures of the night spread out. Wes didn't want to imagine what these creatures were- if they were just simple owls or bats or perhaps far more sinister beings that had escaped their brimstone hell.

A placid growl made him jump and nearly drop the stack of large tomes with their yellowed pages he had brought with him. His wife was suspecting him to be frequenting brothels, and as much as it pained him that she'd think of him that lowly, he couldn't blame her. The truth would upset her more, and he didn't want to burden her with the knowledge that her brother-in-law was stuck in the body of a wolf. Not after their little son had found his untimely death in such a grotesque manner.

"Soul." Wes gave the beast- his brother a small nod. It had taken him a little time not to flinch whenever Soul appeared in front of him, but in the end, he had managed to see past the form of a large, imposing beast and see his little brother instead- the little brother he was intent on getting back. "I hope these books will be more helpful than the others." Wes sighed, dropping onto his knees in front of Soul and opening the thickest of the tomes. "I read through this one a little, and it suggests you can reclaim your human body!"

Soul tilted his head to the side at this, his ears perking up attentively.

"But it gives many possibilities, and apparently the way you ended up in this form is also crucial. Was it a witch's curse? Or perhaps it's because one of your lady conquests felt wronged. Or you bitten by a beast─"

Soul let out a bark, his eyes bright, as Wes' head snapped up. "I see. You have been bitten." He tapped his chin, staring emptily into the distance. "I wanted to ask...a knowledgeable person to accompany me, but I suspected them not to be as well versed in these occult topics as they claimed to be." Wes heaved a light sigh, his nerves fraying, his ineptitude making the bile in his stomach rise, which only worsened when Soul yowled, afflicted, his ears flattening against his head.

Despite his intimidating size, his little brother looked nothing like a dangerous beast at the moment and Wes allowed himself for the first time since their reunion at his son's grave to touch the soft white fur of the wolf. "We will manage to regain your humanity, Soul. In one way or another. I promise."

And Wes would keep his promise. He'd come to the edge of the Lost Woods almost every day. Their progress was a slow one, but Wes would always bring something with him to give to Soul. His favorite thing had been the little present he brought him for his birthday. He didn't know how old he was, and Wes informed him with a wrinkly face that it was, indeed, his 56th.

Wes' beloved wife left him after he admitted to her that he was attempting to save his brother, who had befallen a devilish curse. Lady Cecily would cry in the night, wait a month and try to convince her husband that his little brother was dead- had died a long time ago. Wes would hear none of it, reject her offers for help, and chase away the reverend when he tried to speak to him about his problem. Cecily left him two days after Christmas Eve. Their children had already passed away and with a husband who was becoming progressively more unhinged, she decided to leave as much as it pained her; her sister Gwendolyn would accept her in her house.

Despite his loss, Wes didn't give up, and came back for Soul day after day, even when his back started to hurt and he needed a cane to walk. They tried different methods to help Soul- potions, herbs, even some ancient chants- but spending time with his older brother was enough for Soul to clear his mind of the neverending haziness that seemed to surround him since he had been bitten- a haziness that made him act aggressively, that called for blood, for meat, for killing.

It was on a mild spring day when Soul finally mastered control of his form. Crimson eyes wondrously took in hands and feet and skin. He touched his face, felt cheekbones, eyebrows, the bridge of his nose and his mouth, pricking his tongue on one of his sharp teeth. He immediately scrambled for the clothes Wes had left him should he return to his human form without him being there. Soul dressed quickly, his shirt askew, his cravat messy, before he took off quickly. It was a novelty to run on legs and feet; he was much slower than his beast form, but faster than he could ever remember being as a boy.

Their house had aged poorly, the vibrant bricks faded into dull chestnut brown. Soul approached the house with reverence still, his heart heavy and warm in his chest, joy threatening to burst through his veins. Nobody answered the door, but Soul knew Wes was inside, his superior senses remaining still with him as a stairs squeaked beneath his shoes, apprehension crawling up his neck as he pushed a brittle oak door open. He sucked in a sharp breath, covering his nose with the back of his hand at the putridity of the room.

"Wes?" Soul whispered anxiously, his steps heavy as he came to stand next to the small bed his older brother was lying on. Only, he didn't look like his brother anymore. Once pale, unblemished skin was blotted with dark spots, hazy maroon eyes opened weakly and recognition flared in them. Thin lips pulled into a smile and a frail, gnarly hand reached up to Soul. "Wes?" he whispered again thickly, his throat clogging up with emotion.

"Soul," Wes rasped tiredly, each breath he took rattled his lungs. "You look so young." His older brother laughed, wheezy chuckles that sounded as hearty as the ones from his youth. "You made it, Brother. You are back to your own self."

"Nonsense. I did nothing! If it weren't for you, I would have never been able to do it. It is all thanks to you, Brother."

Wes smiled serenely, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more pronounced. "I'm glad you're here with me, I don't want to die alone."

Soul's eyes stung, his chest constricting with the sobs he suppressed. He didn't want to cry in front of his brother. He wanted to smile and tell Wes that he wouldn't die yet because why should he when Soul had just reclaimed his human self? He wanted to tell him how he was too stubborn to die, too strong to die, but most of all Soul wanted to tell Wes that he wasn't going to die - that he couldn't die - because then he'd be all on his own.

Yet as Wes' chest rose and fell weakly, his eyes heavy lidded, his limbs jittery and frail, Soul couldn't ward off the resignation gnawing at his stuttering heart. Wes was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. Or perhaps he could bite him and make him live longer? Would Wes want that? He had lived a long life, a life filled with heavy losses, yet he was still smiling at his younger brother as if he couldn't be happier.

Soul clenched his fists. The least he could do is ask Wes what he wanted, how and where he wished to be buried- maybe next to his son? Or next to their parents? Should he inform his wife about his passing?

His mouth could barely move, his lips stiff as he struggled to form words, fighting off the bitter feeling of losing his last living relative. His voice was trembling, wavering into broken, quiet sobs as he spoke. "What do you want me to do, Wes?" he asked, hastily wiping his tears off with the back of his hand.

Wes regarded him for a moment and Soul's panic made him freeze when his brother didn't answer, the light leaving his eyes, soulless, dark depths staring into nothing. But Wes' chest was still moving- he was still breathing, and Soul leaned in quickly because he was not going to miss his brother's last words to him. Wes breathed in.

"Be good."

And breathed out.


	3. The Red Sorceress

Time was at a standstill, drops of blood slowly dripping down Maka's wound as she dropped onto her knees. Soul's vision blurred at the edges, distorting buildings, red bricks and stark grey concrete into a textureless mass of black. Only Maka was there, Maka in her pretty red dress, Maka and her pretty white face contorted with pain, Maka and her dainty little hands pressing against the large cut in her side that was oozing blood, Maka who didn't scream, Maka who had pushed him out of harms way and got hurt for him. A woman who barely knew him, yet had done this.

A growl was ripped out of his throat, his fingertips tingling and crawling as rough and sharp claws grew and dug into weak cobblestone. Bones reformed, clothes tore away as he howled, and white fur littered his whole body until he was standing on all fours- the beast of the Lost Woods. The smells pricked at his sensitive nose in all their putridity, shit, piss and decaying animals and wet sick bodies all mingling together into a foul stench.

Maka's blood, metallic and the most potent of smells, made his guts churn. Feral red eyes immediately focused on the thing that had hurt her. It was pathetic that this gangly little afreet could have ever harmed Maka. Soul wasted no time to pounce, strong legs carrying him towards the enemy in less than a few strides. He tore at the thing's jugular, his blood singing with satisfaction when his canines broke rotten skin, almost severing its deformed head from its dumb little neck. The thing let out a pathetic cry as it gurgled and drowned in his own blood. Soul watched until he saw the life drain out if its wretched eye-sockets, and grinned to himself.

A hiss to his left made his ears perk at attention, swift steps rounding in. He detached his bloodied muzzle from the body beneath him and turned, ready to devour another of these abominations. There was an ugly little voice in his head that spurred him on, the steely smell of Maka's blood only making its screeches louder and more tempting and more reasonable because _they had hurt her and they'd pay for this_. He'd tear through their skin and rip out their guts, make them litter the streets and drench his fur with their blood.

A hot bullet whistled past his neck, burning away pristine fur; only it wasn't a bullet- there was no gun being fired- it was small bullets of burning skin that a second afreet was shooting out of his hand. It was different, less monster more human, with a perfect set of straight teeth and healthy skin, but its eyes were pools of black, lacking irises and pupils. It smiled perversely, aimed, and kept firing at Soul, who dodged the first few but staggered, a second too late, as the afreet aimed at him again.

But the bullet never reached him. A sleek sharp knife pierced through the faux man, embedding right in his forehead, perfectly in between his soulless black eyes. The afreet shattered into tiny pieces of flesh and bone, leaving back another familiar orb of stained red.

Maka panted heavily, steadying herself with a shaky palm against the ground, her other one still clutching at her wound.

"You need to be more careful, Soul," she gasped, moaning in pain, and stumbled forward as Soul scurried towards her swiftly, his vision clearing with his returning rationality. She was limply patting the inside of her pouch, her face a deathly pale before he caught Maka on his back, loathing his inability to speak in this form to whisper consoling words to her. "The...potions-the flasks are broken." She slumped limply on top of him, her grip around him feeble. Damn it! He had to take her to a doctor, but where was one? Her blood was already soaking his fur, making him snarl as he took off without further ado.

"Back. We...have to get back," she whispered against his ear, breathing faintly, her grip on him tightening with the barest of pressure. "Go...right. I have─ _ah_!" She winced, almost falling down his back, as she let out a shrill cry. His gait hastened tenfold. "Haah, I have medicine there...at the house."

He didn't need to be told twice; even if he preferred to have her tended to by a doctor, he couldn't waste any more time by arguing with her. He zigzagged through dank streets and alleys, made sharp turns and twists as Maka drawled out the directions at him, insistently telling him to bring her back to her bedroom. Her lids drooped as she struggled to stay conscious. Each painful intake of breath of hers felt like sharp daggers being plunged into his heart.

Why would she do that? Why would she risk her life like that? For him?

It seemed like a hundred hours had passed until he reached the house, his paws digging into mud and filth as he struggled forward. He gently set her down, transformed into his human self before he picked her up even more gently, apologizing quietly when she mewled, her hand pressing more firmly against her side. He carelessly dropped her pouch down as he practically jumped up the stairs and deposited her onto her bed, not caring if it got dirtied with mud and blood. He a filled a ceramic bowl with hot water from the wash basin in the water closet as he had seen Maka do when she had dressed his injuries.

He had no personal experience with treating the wounded, but he had witnessed how a doctor had dressed his father's leg injury after a hunting accident. Soul cautiously tried to pry her dress off with jittery hands, flinching at her soft cries. The fabric was stuck to the cut. He gulped as he tried to recall what the doctor had done─

"G-get me the healing potion," she bit out, clenching her fist near the cushion, the muscles in her arm straining as she struggled to sit up, not heeding his words. "Do it, _please!_ The purple one."

He did as he was told, watching her from the corner of his eyes as she ripped off the back of her dress, her teeth gritting harshly. His heart thudded frantically in his chest, as he made a blind grasp for everything that looked purplish and held the small crystalline bottles out to her. Maka's quivering hand snatched one and he wasted no time to shove the other bottles somewhere else, so he could help her peel off the chemise that was still clinging to her body, eliciting more pained cries as it was torn away from the large gash at her waist.

Wetting the cloth in the bowl, he carefully brought it to the wound, muttering another array of apologies as he wiped at it tenderly, hoping to clean it. But there was so much blood! He pressed the cloth flatly against the gash, sucking in a sharp breath in time with her own as she opened the flask. The content moved slowly, a viscous mass rather than a liquid.

Her face had gone even paler, her veins a stark blue against the parched white of her skin, corpse-like and eerie. She drank the potion with three gulps, gagging more with each, coughing a little of it out as it spilled from the corner of her mouth and trickled down the column of her neck. All he could do was try to staunch the blood flow, whispering broken words of encouragement- that she was going to feel better soon, that she was strong, that pain would be gone quickly. It was pathetic. He didn't know what she had just drank, but he'd trust her actions. Maka let the flask drop haphazardly with a dull thud as her upper body collapsed onto the bed, her chest pressing tiredly against the stained sheets. His heart was still beating at a deafeningly loud pace, his worry tangible and rising as her eyes misted over.

"Maka? Maka, what-what did you do?"

A sigh of relief left his mouth, when she glanced at him hazily, her voice nothing but a drowsy drawl. "I drank a healing potion. It should be working already; here─" her hand brushed against his knuckles that were still faithfully pressing against the wound. She gave him a dim smile, the murkiness of her eyes growing with each second. Soul carefully pulled the cloth away, swallowing hard and trying to ignore how it had been completely drenched red with her blood, only to gasp when he was met with immaculate skin. Nothing was left, no gash, not even the smallest hint of a cut, not even a scar.

He blinked up at her dubiously, his hands were still shaking but this time more out of sheer relief than crushing panic. "How?"

She giggled obtusely, sounding like a girl half her age. "Never underestimate the concoctions of a sorceress. I had two very good teachers who showed me how to make them," she said, her eyes flickering curiously up and down. "Its healing effects work quickly, but it also muddles with my head."

"Why? Why did you do this?" he asked, his voice fraught with the gravity of her actions. "Why would you push me away like that only to suffer from such a grievous injury? You know I am a quick healer yet-yet you...pushed me away."

"Hmm, it is what I do. The reason I have enlisted in the Agency- to help others."

Running his bloodied hand through his hair, Soul sighed shakily. "Please, don't do this again? You─"

"What happened to your clothes? I liked how they looked on you." Her eyes hurriedly flitted up and down the length of his body again, this time with a frown. They became fixed on his groin, and it was then that the state of his nudity became clear to him. A smug little smile graced her lips as his blood boiled and rushed up to his cheeks. "But I think I like you without your clothes, too. Mmmaybe even more."

Her eyes slid shut peacefully and he was once again gripped by panic, but her back was rising and falling with steady breaths and he allowed himself to let his shoulders sag. Was it normal that her potions seemed to have the effect of opium on her? He gingerly reached out and smoothed her hair out of her face, wiped the sweat away from her nape with a clean cloth.

He pulled the sheet from beneath her and pulled it up to her neck.

* * *

It was several hours later when Maka awoke, half-undressed, head drowsy and senses numb. It was only a matter of a minute before her memories returned, a splitting headache accompanying them. She disliked using these potions for a reason- as useful as they were, her brain usually felt like it had been repeatedly clubbed by an ogre. She winced at the dried blood on her clothes as she heaved herself onto her knees, her limbs protesting with all their nervous quivering. She nearly toppled down the bed into a heap of ungraceful legs and arms and tattered clothing. Letting out a groan, she finally managed to stand on shaky feet, steadying herself at the bedpost.

She'd like to take a bath, but perhaps after she had something to eat and refueled her energy. This was going to throw her investigations back by at least a day. She stripped off her dirty dress and underwear, and donned a thin robe she retrieved from the overly ornate armoire at the right corner of the room.

Where was Soul? Fastening the front of the robe, she made her way down the stairs, her hand gripping the railing tightly when she saw black spots in front of her eyes. The rest of the way down was marginally safer, but all dizziness and annoyance was gone the moment her bare foot slapped into a thick puddle of something.

She blinked.

Blood.

Her eyes widened before she let out a gasp. Droplets of red littered the smooth wooden floor. Her heart jumped into her throat as her brain gave her flashes of an injured Soul, lying broken and beaten somewhere.

She passed the tea room, grimacing at the metallic stench that made her stomach twist and churn and she had to stop for a moment to gather herself before she continued on, rounding a corner into the kitchen and─

"WHAT are you doing?!" she shrieked, clutching the door frame for support. Oh yes, there was blood in the kitchen, and though it fortunately wasn't Soul's, it belonged to the _dead chicken he was devouring._ Uncooked! Raw! The appalling sight of his blood drenched hands and his mouth buried in the poor chicken's chest was at odds with his big puppy-like eyes. She felt the bile rise up into her mouth when he swallowed a chunk of pink (RAW) flesh down.

It was as if the faraway reality of his actions came to hit him in the face. He dropped the half-eaten chicken onto the table with a disgustingly squelchy noise; the neck of it was snapped in half, the head dangling grossly over the edge of the table. He regarded his hands with something akin to horror.

"I...was hungry," he said dully, sucking in a shuddery breath. "I...I was hungry, but I don't know how to cook...and...I...I ate animals raw in the forest, too, and-and _urgh._ "

Her stomach was still turning but this time for another reason. Her shoulders slumped as she entered the kitchen, her gait sluggish and tired. "I am sorry for yelling at you, Soul." She plopped down like a heavy sack of potatoes onto the nearest available chair. "But what...have you been doing with the range?"

Two big pewter pots were on the range, the fire inside surging and burning. She raised an eyebrow, keeping her gaze carefully away from the dead chicken. The smell of coagulated blood and uncooked entrails was difficult to ignore, so she made sure to breathe only through her mouth.

His large, clawed hands vanished under the table and even though they were out of her sight now, she could still clearly discern the nervous fidgety movements of his arms. Soul didn't meet her gaze. "I did not know when you would be waking up, but I thought I might prepare hot water for you in case you wished to take a bath and hoped it wouldn't get too cold by then. I may not know how to prepare a meal, but I sometimes used to watch our servants as they did and I learned how they would use the range."

In this moment Maka silently swore to herself that after her investigations were over and she had finally brought this abominable killer to justice, she'd cook Soul a grand meal.

"Oh, Soul. You didn't have to." It was her turn to look away. It wasn't like her to be so abashed around a man, but this man in particular was far too endearing for the one day she knew him.

"No, it was the least I could do," he mumbled, his eyes a warm shade of burgundy that warmed her cheeks as well. "Especially after what you did for me, even though I do not understand why?" His gaze was accusing and she felt the indignation rise within her. She would have stood up if she didn't feel so weak.

"It is what I do, Soul. I have made it my mission to help and protect others."

"Yes, I understand that, but...but my injuries heal fast. I don't need any magical potions to recuperate. I─" his chin snapped up, his jaw tense as he put a clenched, bloody fist back on the table. "─don't understand why you put yourself in harm's way for me."

"It is because of me that you were dragged into this mess; the least I can do is to protect you," she said softly, earnestly. "And I do not like the thought of having you injured only because you heal faster. You...still feel the pain." Her eyes challengingly held his, daring him to contradict her. "I should have been more careful and made use of my soul sensing ability sooner. It would have spared us this...commotion."

He muttered a few disgruntled retorts under his breath, but Maka knew this discussion was finished for now. His concern for her touched her, but she would stand by what she said. The thought of seeing him lying on the cold ground blood oozing out of him was an image she'd rather never have to see. It had been enough to see him bruised and battered after she had put that silly curse on him, how he had lain on her bed, snoring soundly despite his injuries.

She was as intrigued by him as she pitied him. She wanted to know his story, how he came to perfect the fluid shift from beast to man and back. It was a notoriously difficult process and basically unheard of that someone had ever managed to do it own their own, yet he had apparently been spending all his beast years in that wretched forest. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to be alone for so long. Maybe that was why she tolerated his presence and company so much; he wasn't necessarily slowing her down, but this investigation had nothing to do with him and it was irresponsible of her to let him accompany her. But he was not as defenseless as she had first assumed him to be either. She had barely been conscious, but she had seen him tear through that afreet effortlessly, viciously. The memory made the contents of her stomach spin and she had to clamp her hand onto her mouth lest she vomited onto the table.

"I also have to apologize for something else," Soul suddenly said, voice guilty. "The money I gave Ms Mary, it wasn't mine. I just gave it away without thinking that it likely belongs to someone from the Agency you work for."

"Hah? Oh? Don't worry about it." She smiled. "It made her happy, didn't it? And I sincerely doubt that someone is going to come back for those coins."

"I still think I should have consulted you beforehand." He made an attempt to place his head onto the table, but seemed to notice in the last second that there was still a dead chicken lying there. Speaking of which…

"Soul, where did you get the chicken?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. "I don't recall having bought a chicken."

"Uh, I was...hunting?" If that reply hadn't been suspicious enough already, his squeaky voice would have been enough of a sign for Maka.

"I don't think there are any stray _chickens_ in the vicinity?"

"Yes, you are correct. There are no _stray_ chickens."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction more. "You-you stole the neighbour's chicken?!"

He looked almost petulant when he crossed his arms, and maybe her eyesight was playing a trick on her with the side effects of the potion, but she was almost sure that he had been pouting for the briefest of a moment. Maka sighed loudly and put her head in her hands. She would need to apologize to her temporary neighbours and replace the chicken.

"Why didn't you eat the vegetables in the larder?" she questioned tiredly. This time he certainly did pout.

"Because that is rabbit food and I do not eat rabbit food," he huffed.

* * *

Maka sighed contently, the hot water pleasant and calming, as her muscles relaxed. Her head lolled to the side with a quiet satisfied moan. It had been very courteous of Soul to bring the tin bathtub into her room and fill it with the water he had boiled. She squirmed a little; he had strong arms. He was really starting to remind her of a puppy, she thought with a smile. Soul was very eager to please, ready to do her bidding and his entire face always seemed to light up whenever she thanked him or smiled at him. It was in certain ways very endearing, but it would surely start to bother her if she had to deal with it every day.

Even though there was something very childlike and lost about him, he sometimes looked at her in ways that was very much not childlike. It was the look of a man wanting a woman in the most intimate of ways, but he hadn't attempted to touch her inappropriately aside from that one instance when they had met in the Lost Woods.

She stretched her legs as much as the small tub allowed her to; she remained a few minutes like this before she quickly washed her hair and cleaned herself up, standing up in the tub as she rinsed herself off with the flagon of warm water next to it. Toweling herself dry, she put on a fresh pair of drawers and a clean chemise, followed by a petticoat. She cringed at the dress she chose to wear this time. It was red, of course, and definitely frillier than the last one, sleeveless and just as short. While her new repertoire of dresses was certainly pretty and their flimsiness gave more room for her legs to move, she disliked the way the people looked at her.

Well, there was no way getting around that and hopefully she was standing out enough that the murderer tried to attack her. Using herself as bait was dangerous, but people usually underestimated her because of her small stature and her sex. Maka fastened her trusty knife holster around her thigh, making sure the dagger sat there securely. She did the same with her other thigh before she pulled on her dress, sheathing a smaller dagger inside the bodice.

Three loud raps against her door resounded, Soul's muffled voice reaching her ears, "May I come in?"

She didn't really think before she spoke. "Yes, come in."

The moment he stepped over the threshold and saw her with the back of her dress unlaced, he stumbled a little, eyes growing wide and wondrous. _Like a puppy_ , was her initial thought before it registered in her mind that she invited him into her room in her half-dressed state. There was a slight moment where she felt mortified, but it eased away as quickly when she reminded herself how he had tended to her gash and had helped her to free it of her clothes.

The barest hint of a blush graced her cheeks, but she paid it no mind but watched Soul watching her reflection in the mirror. And it happened again; the way his innocent wide eyes changed, the red of his irises flickering in frenetic disorder before they settled and darkened and narrowed. She did not like how this made her shiver.

"I came to get rid of the water," he said thickly, the vein in his left forearm jumping when he clenched his fist. Maka gulped and tremulously commenced to pull the laces more tightly.

"You don't need it?" she asked, trying to ignore the heated way he observed her. He stood a few paces behind her- a distance that was appropriate- but the way he took her in was anything but. She cursed under her breath when her hand slipped, clammy with sweat. She would like to blame still the side effects of the healing potion even though it had been hours since she drank it.

Soul shook his head, white fringes of hair falling over his eyes. "I cleaned myself at the small creek closeby."

"Ah, I see." Maka was not naive enough to delude herself that it was the potion that made her act like an idiot. She remembered the words she had said to him, how she had drawled them as she had unabashedly complimented him on his body. She was more dignified than this, but she could not deny that she had developed a certain attraction towards this man.

"Do you want me to help you?" He was closer, still two steps behind her. He held her gaze in the mirror and, much to her perturbation, her eyes were as hungry as his. She didn't deny his offer, but she didn't say anything either; their eyes did all the communicating that was needed.

His hands were callous, but cautious and quaky. Neither attempted to speak as he slowly laced up her dress. She could feel the bodice tightening around her torso, giving it an elegant hourglass shape, pushing her bust up, which his keen eyes naturally caught. She flinched when he pulled the strings too tightly at the bottom and he quickly apologized before he eased the laces a bit further apart and bound them together then.

"You seem to...know well how to dress a woman for a man." Maka tried for a humorous tone, but her voice came out coy and playful. His fingertips grazed her back as he pulled his hands away, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I am better versed in how to undress a woman."

The moment was shattered; the tension flew right back out of them as Soul's face was stricken and aghast and Maka couldn't decide between laughter and anger. She should be incensed because of his brazen comment, but the bitter nagging voice in her reminded her all too well that she had become too fond him of him by now.

"I am-I am sorry. Such a comment was uncalled for," he said hastily, his palms raised in front of him appeasingly.

She sniffed. "Indeed it was." She should be feeling more peeved than this and his words did remind her of the philandering ways of her undignified father, but there was no spark in her glare. "I thought you to be a respectable gentleman."

He shrugged helplessly. "I do like to think of myself in that way, yes, but I did not shy away from appreciating a lady's beauty either."

"Is it that what it was called back then?" she snorted as she raised her chin.

"The term 'bedding' was more preferred actual-" he stopped when he saw her unimpressed look, only to stammer on, "I-I mean...I was still courteous to each lady I met, regardless if I bedded them or not. I do not think I bedded even that many." He rubbed the nape of his neck uneasily, cringing as he laughed awkwardly.

Maka hid her smile behind her hand. It was far too amusing to see him lose his composure like that. "Have you always been such a smooth talker?"

* * *

Maka was, in a way, proud of how he was handling his second ride with the railway; his face did pale a little, but he wasn't clinging to her arm or looking like he was desperately searching for the quickest way to escape. It had been wonderful to see him take in the new things, the new technology, the new means of transportation- the ships on the Thames especially. He asked her about the wherries and why there were so little of them there. She tried to explain everything to him to the best of her abilities, but she could often discern the confusion on his face, the disappointment in his eyes when she struggled for simpler words to explain to him.

She shivered slightly when they stepped out into the cold air; today was marginally warmer, but not enough for her to not curse her short dress. But it was necessary. She had notified the Metropolitan Police that the letters allegedly sent by the killer would be collected by her assistant; she was still hoping the clues Grandmother could give them would be enough without resorting to the letters.

Her gloved hand rubbed up and down her arm as they made their way through a particularly busy Whitechapel Road; the people barely noticed her scandalous dress as they went on their daily business, their mingling chatters were an array of several accents, Russian, Yiddish and Irish the most prevalent, loud and only drowned out by the louder costermongers' shouts.

They wrestled their way through a throng of people, their cheeks hollow, their clothes moth-eaten tatters. Maka extended the range of her soul perception a little wider. After last night's happenings she had to be more careful, but there was something odd- a bleak line, a small sting at the back of her head that made her tire easily.

She had never doubted that this potential warlock or witch was strong, but he couldn't have such tremendous power that they could restrain other people's soul sensing abilities from such a distance, could they? Maybe this person was stronger than she- far stronger. Maybe it wasn't just soul protect they possessed as a power, but further manipulations of the soul? She had heard tales that people could mask their souls in such a way that they weren't completely hidden, making it easier for them to blend in between simple people.

But those were rumours, not very reliable rumours at best. She needed to stay focused on the facts and not on some gossipmongering of old folks, but she'd still keep those things in the back of her mind.

Another thing she wasn't very sure about was if the warlock himself was responsible for the murders or if he had sent an afreet out to do the dirty work for him.

They made a turn from Whitechapel Road to Commercial Street, which was even more crowded and dirty, but a wide street regardless, with stone tramways on each side of the road. It was an artery to bypass the traffic of inner London, an artery that was constricted by the lumps of miserable people. They turned left into Dorset Street, flophouses littering the small narrow streets left and right. Their windows were small and a lot of them filthy and broken, patched up with rags and paper.

They entered an alley called Little Paternoster Row that lead them to Brushfield Street, where this Grandmother had her abode. It was another street governed by filth and lodging houses, but the tenement of Grandmother looked, from the outside at least, a little nicer.

Maka hoped this woman could give them the information they needed.


	4. The Grandmother

"Oh, please have a seat, you look a bit worn out," Grandmother said with a polite smile, before she excused herself into the kitchen. It wasn't often that Maka was the one to look down when she spoke with someone, but Grandmother was a few inches smaller than she. Soul was practically towering over the elderly woman, twice her size.

Grandmother's one-room flat was spacious for a single person; the kitchen was a separate room, which was a rarity in itself as Maka knew many houses in this parish made use of a kitchen shared by several families that were living in the same lodging house. Grandmother came back with a tray of three steaming mugs.

"Thank you," Maka said sincerely, her stiff fingers warming as she took hold of the mug. She didn't necessarily like black tea, but this one had a very nice, a lemony aroma, and she really didn't want to be impolite and decline the old woman's hospitality. That and her bones were nearly frozen and she would be stupid not to accept warm tea offered to her. She took a grateful, happy gulp and set the mug back down onto the polished wooden table in front of her. It shook a little, one of its legs was shorter than the other three.

"The tea is delicious, Mrs.-?" Soul began, throwing the old woman an inquiring glance.

Grandmother waved her hand. "I am fine with Grandmother. I am too old for those prim and proper titles. And thank you." The corners of her eyes wrinkled more, her smile bright and delighted. "I know it is not much and it must taste bland, but I wasn't expecting any guests."

"Ah, pardon me...Grandmother," Soul said awkwardly, his lips feathering the rim of the mug before he set it down again. "And there is nothing bland about the tea."

"I must agree with him," Maka cut in and, remembering her manners, slid her red hood off. "I am sorry that we have come here unannounced, but we have a few pressing questions to ask...regarding the murders here in Whitechapel."

Grandmother's eyebrows furrowed, her mouth settling into scowl. "I did speak to Inspector Aberline about this matter. Why haven't you consulted him?"

Maka sighed; she had been expecting this kind of resistance, but the woman's soul was not aggressive like John McCarthy's- hers radiated out warmth and gentleness and Maka understood all too well why the prostitutes on the streets spoke so fondly of this woman.

"We have, but we were hoping you could disclose us some information you might have not told Scotland Yard," Maka replied, her hands flat on her lap, her back straight and taut.

"I...I don't think there is anything else I can tell you. I'm sorry for wasting your time like this." The old woman bit her lip, calm pale blue eyes conflicted.

Damn it. Maka gritted her teeth, but maintained a calm face. She couldn't be rejected like this again. Their last chance would be trying to make sense of one of those silly letters that had been published by the Central News Agency. She couldn't risk the killer escaping her; she had a mission, and not only was it her responsibility given to her by Lord Death, but she owed it to the victims.

"Please, Grandmother," Maka continued, her fists clenching the fabric of her skirt, playing with the black satiny frills. "You have known these women personally; you have helped them yourself. I spoke with some girls the other day and they hold you in high regard because you are always so kind and helpful, even when most just regard them with disdain."

Grandmother's scowl grew as she rubbed the bridge of her pointy nose and ran the same hand over her white hair that was bound tightly into a small bun at the nape of her neck. Maka disliked the reluctance in the woman's eyes, but knew that she was scared like the landlord had been, like many of the prostitutes she had interrogated had been.

Maka softened her voice a little, warded off the anger in her heart. "I understand your fear, but _please_ , I need your help. These women had families- some of them left behind little children, their brothers and sisters and─"

"I know that!" Grandmother snapped, face contorting into an ugly grimace. Her steely eyes made Maka freeze. "I knew them all, I knew their families and it makes me sick that they have found their ends in such a gruesome way. May the Lord have mercy on their poor souls." She folded her small, gnarly hands on top of her heart, her fingers atremble, and closed her eyes solemnly.

Soul muttered the same phrase under his breath, bowing his head reverently. Maka felt foolish and out of place for a moment before Soul's red gaze sought out hers, silently asking her what her next step would be. She nodded curtly, glad for his support. She took a deep breath and licked her lips before she took another gulp from the tea, sighing silently.

"I am sorry. Of course, you knew all of this. I have become a little desperate in my investigations, you see." Her fingers tightened around the mug.

Perhaps Lord Death had put too much faith in her. Usually her missions were quickly over, as afreets were quick to give themselves away, too hungry to care as long as they can sink their claws into flesh and eat the souls of innocent people. This murderer, however, was too intelligent to be the simple type of afreet. Her breath hitched as she strained her soul perception more firmly; Soul's soul was strong and sturdy, a dark edge to it and the crushing weight of loneliness making a bitter taste rise in her mouth, but ultimately at its core it was a soul that shone brightly with warmth, like his eyes.

There was the soul of a little flower girl, who was pleased to have sold nearly all her flowers already. She was a happy girl, despite the miserable conditions of her health. Or the boy who had gotten into a fight and whose soul was trembling, nearly weeping not from pain but because of the harsh blow to his pride.

Yet the more Maka tried to discern an anomaly amidst the people, the more her head protested with stings against her temples and a soreness of her scalp. She hissed and clutched her forehead, smiling at Grandmother and Soul when they asked if she was feeling unwell. Maka let her soul perception drop completely and the tension in her body deflated as she slumped forward, catching herself against the table before she collapsed.

Soul's hand was immediately at her elbow, steadying her, and she patted his arm, hoping to convey that things like this happened sometimes. Soul Perception was not easy on one's own soul, especially when she had been straining it so much the past few days.

"Oh dear, are you alright?" Grandmother asked worriedly, her thin arms over the table, close to touching Maka's clenched fist.

"I am fine, thank you," Maka whispered, before she cleared her throat and tried again with a clearer voice. "I am serious. I am fine, _Soul_." She smiled at him however weakly, touched at the concern in his eyes. He held her gaze insistently, the moment stretching on for long enough to be considered awkward. Maka gulped loudly, almost forgetting Grandmother's existence entirely, only able to register the warmth of Soul's long, elegant fingers against her skin.

"Maybe we should leave and come back tomorrow or the day after that, since you clearly haven't recovered yet," he said gruffly, not taking his eyes from her.

She wrenched her hand away with an outraged glared. "I think I am perfectly capable to be the judge of that─" Maka turned her gaze to Grandmother quickly, not quick enough to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes, and said, "I apologize for worrying you, but could we perhaps come back to the murders, please?"

* * *

"Which one are we going to seek out first?" Soul asked as they exited the dingy tenement. Maka looked up at grey clouds tinged with the dim orange of the setting sun, and closed her eyes. She had already made up her mind the moment Grandmother started naming people with whom the victims had associated often.

"I will go and interrogate these people by myself, Soul, but first I'll see if Grandmother will tell me more when I am alone with her," she said, opening her eyes and was unsurprisingly met with Soul's scolding face. Irrational anger flared within her for the moment, his gaze nearly a mirror of the ones that had already been directed at her by some residents of Death City- people who thought she was not fit for a mission like this. She held up her hand before he could voice his protests. "I need you to do something else, if that is alright with you."

Soul blinked, his frown vanishing as he raised a questioning eyebrow. "What do you want me to do?"

"You need to go to the building of the Metropolitan Police Service and seek out Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline. He will know you're coming and will hand you the letter that is the most likely to have been sent by the killer."

"And you're going to be alone here...in Whitechapel all the time?" he asked dubiously, his shoulders tense.

"Yes, of course," she almost snapped, but softened her tone somewhat, yet her scowl was still deep and pronounced, "You're forgetting that I had already been on my own here before I met you, Soul."

His shoulders slumped. "Of course, I apologize. I forgot. So you want me to retrieve that letter?"

"Yes, we will meet again in two hours, regardless of our results, and see where to go from there. Do you understand?"

He nodded and she rummaged briefly through her pouch before she took out a small vial, the liquid inside sheer- almost like simple water.

"Here, take this." She placed it into his outstretched palm, her smaller hands enveloping his as he clutched the vial tightly. "It's a shrinking potion," she whispered, looking at him from beneath her lashes, biting her lip. "Your wolf form is too big and conspicuous in broad daylight. Drink the potion before you transform, wait a few minutes and you should feel the potion take its effects and then transform. Your senses should still be strong, if a little duller, but definitely more efficient if I were just to place the Spell of the Young Child at you."

She was wary of letting him go off by himself. He hadn't experienced this London for long and she didn't want him to get into trouble, but if they separated, they'd be more likely to be successful. He eyed the vial contemplatively, swiveling it around; she had yet to let go of his hand.

"Will you be able to find the building of the police again?" she asked when she finally let go of him.

"I will," he said firmly, and grinned rakishly, easing her troubled mind. "Take care and don't scare the poor Grandmother with your morbid questions again─" he raised a clawed hand and ruffled her hair, chuckling lowly at her half-hearted protests. "Be good."

Her heart jumped against her ribs. "I always am good," she said, smiling coyly

* * *

The dress was sticking uncomfortably to her skin, wet and cold from the rain pelting down on her. It washed away the dirt and filth down the streets in little rivulets, human excretion and dead rats and rubbish that was thrown out onto the streets from the windowless flophouses. Even though it was tempting to just turn around and leave this dark, dank alley be, Maka's eyes were diligently focused on the path before her. A group of women, all in their middle ages, were sitting and cowering at the front steps and chatting loudly. One of them, in a pale cream dress, laughed loudly as the youngest one whispered something, pointing at Maka.

"Go home, girl!" she yelled, her voice an annoying high pitch, her words slurred and it was then that Maka noticed the bottles in the women's hands, all of them half-empty. "Gonna get yourself in trouble. Someone jus' might cut your pretty little neck in half."

Maka hastened her gait, pulled her hood over eyes as she let the wavelength of her soul drop into the lull of soul perception. Her view blurred, both from the rain falling into her eyes and the force of her soul perception. The dim lights melted together into an indistinct fleck of yellow, yet the shine of the human souls around were a vibrant shade of blue. They were good people, Maka told herself and unflinchingly proceeded through the street, despite a group of men, waiting at the corner of the street, were advancing towards her, sleazy smiles and leering gazes aimed in her direction.

Putting on the best of her glares, she kept walking and casually sidestepped one of them- one whose suspenders hung loosely around his hips- her fingers already tingling with her magic should he or his friend try to attack her. She didn't even grace the other one with a glance- just kept walking and ignored his slurred shouts. The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose; she could feel their leering, drunken eyes burning into her back, but she quickly rounded the corner and stepped into the crowded street.

She briefly glanced up at the large clock of Christchurch before she continued with hurried steps, passing the small graveyard- doubtlessly another placed haunted by tramps, vagrants, prostitutes, and drunks. She passed a row of huguenot houses, all of them prettier than she was used to from Whitechapel, before she reached Ten Bells pub. Grandmother had told her that Mary Kelly liked to frequent this place often with a friend. Old worn leather couches were barely occupied at this time of the day. The walls were decorated in ornate patterns and pretty lavish tapestries Maka hadn't been expecting. The bar counter was a solid, clean, polished dark wood; the man standing listlessly behind was scrawny and thin. He appeared to be innocent enough, but tarnished red flickered close to his chest cavity, his soul pulsing with malice.

Maka clenched her fists before she willed herself to relax, smiling easily. As long as he didn't know she was a sorceress sent by the agency to eliminate the likes of him, she might be able to press vital information out of him. She had been hoping to find Mary Kelly's past lover here, as they had come here together often, but she'd take what she could get.

He put on a pleasant smile for her, pale lips parting as he spoke, "What can I do for you, Miss?"

* * *

It was too easy. Maka held back a victorious smile as she stepped out into the backyard of the bar, feigning curiosity as she looked around. Too easy. Afreets preferred naive and careless victims; the stupider they were, the easier it was to acquire a new tasty soul. Afreets also overestimated their own strength more often than not; perhaps it was in some ways justified as normal humans stood no flicker of a chance against these misshapen creatures of madness.

A few naive comments here and there, some dangerously accurate facts about the case whispered in a conspiratorial voice were all it took to make him lure her here, to dispose of her.

"What is it you wanted to show me, Sir?" she asked airily. The man had his back turned to her, his soul pulsing wildly with his excitement, with his hunger. Her eyes narrowed as she took a few steps forward. "Where is it─"

She didn't get to finish. His soul flared wildly as he hunched over, his shoulders shaking, the skin under his shirt crawling grotesquely as if little slimy worms were trying to burst out of his body. His muscles expanded as they twisted around newly shaped bones with a repugnant crack, his skin the sickening white of a dead body. It lasted no longer than a second before he turned around, his face deformed like molten wax. One eye was impossibly narrow but situated where a normal eye should have been, while the other iris was large and deeply embedded in a vertical eye socket. He barely had any lips on his mouth, but he unmistakably shot her a twisted smile, his overgrown long ears hanging limply on the sides of his head.

Maka gulped, but the fear on her face was fake. Maybe he would have been more convinced of her being just a simple girl if she had screamed, but there was no use in bemoaning her lack of decent acting skills.

"I-I..what are you?" she stammered and let her voice drop to a fearful whisper at the end. His grin just widened as his vertical eye flickered up and down.

"Don't be scared, little lady. You can call me the White Rabbit, don't be scared, don't be scared."

She took a few steps back as he advanced on her, his gait heavy. He didn't give her the time to retort and broke into a sprint, his torso angling forward, his arms hidden beneath his silly white cloak. She would try to not to kill him- she still needed answers, needed to know if this disfigured afreet was perhaps the murderer.

She stood tall on her feet, awaited him calmly with her fists clenched tightly by her sides, before she made swift grab for the knife strapped on her left thigh. He appeared to be entirely unsurprised at this, and then his cloak parted - _literally_ \- because it was no fabric, it was his _body_. Pallid, pointy limbs sprouted around him like the crushed legs of a spider. Her heart hammered loudly, her breath loud in her ears as one of the tentacles came down at her like a spear.

Her legs moved on their own accord, her instincts clearer than her consciousness. She slashed at the tentacle with her pathetic knife, only to smile a little when the White Rabbit screeched shrilly as the runed blade cleanly sliced through tendons and muscle. There was no time to celebrate such a small victory; another tentacle took the other's place, thinner and faster, and she evaded it, too, digging the point of her knife into it as she barely avoided another set of two deadly limbs. One pierced through her skirt when she twisted her body to the side, tearing through the material.

He gave her no time to rest! She was quick on her feet, kicking at one limb only to slash through another, her clothes soaking in the White Rabbit's black blood that stuck to her skin like slimy oil. He grazed her arm, spilling her blood for the first time, but she merely cringed and kept her pace, undeterred. Maka ducked her head, dropping onto the moist ground as three tentacles at once pierced through the air sharply, crushing into the brittle brick wall instead to leave it in dust and crumbles.

Her gasp seemed to echo through the whole alley as she rolled to her side, the limbs digging into dirty moist soil. It surprised her that nobody had taken notice of this commotion. She gritted her teeth as jumped onto her feet, running at him steadily, zigzagging her way around his attacks with fluid movements. It was better this way, better not to worry about innocent bystanders getting hurt.

Maka skidded to an abrupt halt just a few paces before him and threw her knife at his face, and as she had expected, he let one particularly misshaped limb take the blow instead. Her sweaty hand was already firmly gripping her second knife and her lips were moving to the rhythm of the language she had learned like a mother tongue, holding her palm out in front of her, fingers just cracks apart as a powerful gust of wind blew the white rabbit away, his stupid tentacles flailing clumsily around him.

She took a deep breath, didn't hesitate a fraction of a second and ran at him, the tip of her trusty knife plunging smoothly into his shoulder, staining the blade black. Growling under her breath, she twisted the knife deeper into the wound, hating the sick grin on his face. She despised everything about this afreet; his entire existence made her stomach churn with revulsion.

"Did you kill the women?" she gritted out, pulling the knife out of him only to ram it into his other shoulder, but his stupid grin wouldn't go away, so she pushed the blade in deeper and deeper, up to the hilt. "You knew I was coming, didn't you? Who sent you?" He had been far too unperturbed by her knife-wielding self. But he wouldn't answer her. It seemed that she needed to beat the answers out of him then; afreets were not worth her or anybody's pity.

Pulling her fist back, she swung it forward in a precise arc and punched him across the face, his head snapping to the side, bones crunching beneath her knuckles.

"Who sent you? Do you work for the murderer?" she tried again, underlying everything with a finely-aimed punch. "Or was it you? Tell me!"

His damned grin would not disappear! The shock from her spell was wearing off, his tentacles twitching stiffly in place like worms before they undulated and languidly writhed into action. She couldn't kill him yet, not after all other leads Grandmother had provided her lead to nowhere. She needed him alive, if only for a few seconds longer. Her scowl deepened as she jumped back, just in time to evade his attack that sliced through the damp air.

He stretched his limbs out, the tips pressing against the ground as he used them to hoist himself back onto his feet like some deranged cross between an insect and a rabbit with his silly ears. The sole of her boot scraped against the muddy ground as she broke into a sprint with small, quick steps, spinning out of each attack of his. Maka was definitely faster, but he was no idiot like the afreets she was used to; he was less driven by ravenous hunger. Even if she could detect it in his soul, he didn't let it blind himself.

She spoke the same spell, but he did not let her finish, and it she wasn't fast enough this time to jump out of his way. A tentacle grazed her side, drawing blood and she twisted her body around in the last second before he could pierce through her stomach, kicking back pitifully to give herself the momentum to jump away only to land in an inelegant crouch, panting heavily.

She was tiring quickly- he was getting the upper hand. Her white-knuckled grip became tighter around the knife's hilt, her jaw painfully tense. Her feet kept on moving, but she wasn't going to be able to hold this pace up for as long as she needed. Maybe she should summon her scythe? It would need just to slice through one tentacle of the White Rabbit to purify the madness, but it was her only trump, and if she failed to properly execute her attack, he'd be prepared again; and she still needed her answers.

The scowl on her face deepened, her eyes narrowed into a glare. She needed to distract him with different spells then- burn him until his white flesh turned black, or manipulate the earth and make the soil rise. Her lips quirked into a small smile. Even if soul magic and brute force was her forte, she'd make these spells work.

Maka whispered the words, let the harsh wind carry them as stony pillars rose from the ground around The White Rabbit, wrapping around him. A flash of surprise passed over his twisted face, and though it vanished as quickly as it came, it was still enough for her to let out a sigh of relief. Schooling her features, mouth set into a thin line, eyes hard and fearless, she stepped up to him, feeling satisfied as he wiggled and twitched futilely in place.

"I want answers, White Rabbit," she said, keeping a cautious distance from him. If she saw the stone-cage cracking, she'd have enough time to flee before he could land a killing strike on her, yet she was close enough to punch him. Which she did when he spat at her and started to giggle like a little girl. "Who is the murderer? Where is he hiding? Did you kill the women? Is he a doctor? A surgeon? Or a butcher?"

The questioned kept repeating themselves, each time punctuated with a punch.

"A surgeon?" he repeated, tilting his head to the side in an angle that ought to be impossible without breaking his neck. Ignoring the sickening way his muscles contorted, how the cords seemed to jump out of his skin, she pressed him further. She refused to to let go of her control when he was finally giving her something else than his damn raspy cackles. "Or maybe a it was a butcher, after all." He smiled.

Involuntarily, she growled, but refrained from cursing him.

"Or maybe it was someone else? Maybe it was me? Or maybe it was you," he said, his lips stretching wide across his cheeks.

"Stop the nonsense and give me the answers I need, Afreet." She let the cage wind more tightly around his body and he squirmed.

"What will you do when I give you the answers, little witch. You are going to kill me, regardless if I answer truthfully or lie."

Her resolution faltered the slightest bit. "It will be a quick death if you cooperate."

"I will be dead nonetheless─" He bowed his head, his ears falling over his face, as his shoulders shook. His head snapped up, eyes glinting with madness, "─if I don't kill you first."

She barely had any time to react; he did not break out of the stone-cage, but went through it, intangible and sheer for a second before one tentacle crashed against her chest. The breath was knocked out of her lungs, her head spinning as another one went through her stomach, pinning her against a slippery wall.

Her voice was ripped from her throat in a scream and it took her a moment to realize that it was indeed her whose cries echoed through the streets. There was so much blood! Gritting her teeth, she forced her head to be upright, her view blurring around the edges, but the shape of the White Rabbit was unmistakable. For a brief moment there was nothing she could register, but her wheezing breaths, the _drip drip drip_ of her blood, the surge of panic burning through her veins, the trembling of her hands, the sour taste of failure on the tip of her tongue.

But then the shrill, mocking laughter of the White Rabbit reached her ears, and all traces of panic left only to be replaced pure potent rage. Maka Albarn was not going to die at the hands of a lowly afreet! She cursed under her breath. It looked like this abomination would not give her the answers she needed. Her hands wrapped around the tentacle that was still embedded in her abdomen, her voice was weak with pain, but she could feel the tingling of fire on her fingertips. It was too late for him to vanish into intangibility- the flames grew and licked up his limb, his screech agonizing to her ears.

He ripped the tentacle out of her and she nearly keeled over with the loss of balance, but she caught herself on her knees before she could fall into the dirt. Maka was too angry to feel the pain, the wrath eating away at her sanity. She was going to kill this scum, rip his limbs apart one for one, relish in his screams and pain. The scythe appeared in her hands with a blinding flash of blue, the blade glinting, the runes shining. Her eyes were dull, staring straight ahead.

"Your soul is mine." She rushed forward, deflecting his piercing limbs with her scythe. There was a deep fulfilling sense of contentment in her heart at the abject terror on the afreet's face, calming her as she spoke, her voice cold and detached, "Die, vermin."

The blade sliced through him cleanly, bisecting him in marvelous display of black blood and blue light, his mouth ripped open in a silent scream, his pupils almost jumping out his eye sockets as he disintegrated into the putrid night air together with her rush of anger.

Maka collapsed onto her knees with a wheezy gasp, clutching her stomach as her skin prickled and her vision blurred. She quickly took a small bottle of healing potion, the flask this time mercifully undamaged as she drank a little, but not too much, just enough to see the superficial scratches closing completely, while the wound on her stomach remained still sore and a little bloody, but closed nonetheless.

She made an attempt to stand up, her muscles burning in protest before she gave up and decided to wait much to her dismay. Her head was spinning and she had to brace herself with her hands against the disgusting ground as she retched, her throat raw, a sour taste in her mouth. She didn't know how long she lingered there before she cleaned herself up the best she could and struggled back to her feet. The feeling of dizziness had receded however slightly, but it was good enough for her to walk and move forward.

She still had a killer to find.

* * *

"I am sorry to bother you again, Grandmother," Maka said, cringing when all fatigue vanished from the the old lady's face, distorting into an appalled grimace. Maka bowed her a head a little, sliding her hood down. "But may I speak to you again?"

"Oh, dear God in heaven, what happened to you, child?" Grandmother whispered, her voice an alarmed rasp as she stepped aside to let Maka enter. The warmth of the humble flat was comforting and almost enough for Maka to relax completely, to revel in the coziness, to sit down a little to recollect her thoughts and her strength and energy.

"I got into a little...altercation," Maka mumbled dazedly, only to jump when Grandmother lead her with a hand on her lower back to a chair to sit on. The old woman clucked her tongue reprovingly, steadying Maka when she swayed a little on the spot and moaned, clutching her head.

"Poor child. Why are you alone though? Where is that nice gentleman that was with you this morning?"

"Ah, Soul…he, he is busy with something else at the moment."

Maka could barely see Grandmother's admonishing scowl, but knew for a fact that it was firmly etched on her old face. "It is dangerous to be outside when it is dark, my dear. Especially with the way you dress." Scolding cold eyes glanced at her bare calves as Maka smoothed down the skirt of her dress, only to flicker with concern when she took in the rips and the dried blood on the fabric. "Are you hurt, my dear? Do you want to stay the night here? I don't feel at ease with the thought of letting you go out like this."

Shaking her head, Maka began, "Grandmother"─ she sighed heavily, willing her hands to cease her damn trembling as she rubbed them together in an attempt to regain some warmth. "I am fine, but...I wanted to know if there was more you could tell me. Anything that could be of help?"

The old woman pressed her lips together tightly into a thin line. "I already told you all I know. What else should I do?"

"I have interrogated everyone you named, but I am no closer to solving this case than before and I─" she put her head into her hands, blond hair sliding down her shoulders, "I can't fail."

"I am sorry, Maka," she said, patting Maka's shoulder gently. "But I really do not know more. If I did, I would have definitely told you the first time. The thought that the girls' death might remain unsolved pains me."

"I won't give up. I will find this murderer even if it kills me."

Grandmother let out a loud gasp. "Don't say something like that," she whispered hurriedly. "Don't tempt your fate like that, young lady. Let me make you some tea; your skin is like ice!" A warm wrinkly hand touched her arm only to withdraw quickly. Before Maka could dissuade her, Grandmother had already vanished, the clanging of kettle and pots and cups accompanying her every move.

"The bartender...he was an afreet." Maka spoke quietly, taking slight comfort in the old woman's presence, but she wished Soul was here with her. He should be coming back soon, hopefully.

"Oh my," Grandmother gasped, face stricken and pale as she came back into the sitting room and handed Maka a small cup of tea. "I am so sorry, my dear. If I had known this, I would have never sent you to that place."

Taking a sip from the cup, Maka chuckled mirthlessly. "I have taken care of him. He never stood a chance." There was a sharp pang in right temple, making her hiss. Maybe she should come back tomorrow, but she had to wait for Soul first. She emptied her cup in a matter of seconds, sighing pleasedly as Grandmother asked her if she wanted to have another cup. Maka could only nod weakly, her vision swimming, little dots of black blotting her eyesight as Grandmother gave her a curious look before she went back into her small kitchen.

With a shuddery breath and a rattly gasp she heaved herself up onto shaky legs. The table and the chairs in front of her blurred into an indecipherable blob of old wood and tea stains. She stumbled forward, heels scraping and dragging against the floor, her hand aimlessly seeking something to grasp and steady her. She needed to go back. Immediately. She tripped, nearly crashing down before she caught herself, her grip on a little closet's handle quivering.

"Grand- _urgh─"_ she gasped, a vicious stab of delirium spreading in her brain, making her clutch slip. She dropped onto her knees as the the closet was yanked open, the door smashing noisily against the brittle wall. Green eyes wide and mouth agape, her body convulsed as cold, sticky sweat trickled down her throat. There weren't any clothes in the closet.

"Grandmother, how...many knives you have."

The small, wrinkly hand against Maka's nape was cold. Something sharp, thin, and pointy was pushed into her neck, easily breaking into her skin. Her eyes slid shut, her muscles loosening and relaxing as all tension left her body, and her head collided with the ground; before she lost consciousness, she heard Grandmother's words, a smile in her voice.

"All the better to cut you up with, my dear."


	5. The Killer

Her limbs were pinned down, but not by any visible restraints; her muscles were like ice, frozen; her blood in her veins like lead; her chest compressed, her throat tight. She couldn't move, but everything else her senses could take in were amplified: Grandmother's distracted chuckles, her certain and firm steps, the sound of the knife as Grandmother let the tip scrape against the surface of the table.

Maka had made a mistake and now she was going to pay for it. She had been expecting a man to be the murderer, someone of tall stature, someone strong and well-muscled. She had been so focused on one certain type of killer that she had completely forgone alternatives. She was a sorceress, someone of sound judgment, someone who was supposed to make proper deductions, yet she hadn't seriously assumed a woman powerful enough to be doing such horrible things- least of all such a small, seemingly frail one.

Grandmother was anything but frail. The old woman sighed, looking almost sad with her slumped stature, her unsquared shoulders. "What a waste," she whispered, coming close to loom over Maka. "The tea has gotten cold. You naughty child- picked such a bad time to find my toys."

Where was Soul? Maybe...maybe Soul would find her. Her guts churned and twisted, abject terror shooting up into Maka's heart as Grandmother held up a sleek, small knife, smiling brightly as if she was about to feed a starving child.

"This one is my favorite," she said, a thin finger stroking the polished blade, the light of the oil lamp giving it a sinister glint. Maka tried to squirm, to move, to kick, to cry and scream- just anything to get out of here. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't even blink, her eyes dry and parched and stinging with the light. "Ah, you silly child. Don't even try it, you won't be able to move. I am very proud of that one actually, I just never had the opportunity to use that serum. I spent years on the formula," she explained happily. "I never realized that adding a little bit of vampire bat saliva would do the trick."

Grandmother lit a candle and placed it on the table next to where Maka lay, still motionless.

"You must have had a good teacher, child, but your ability of the soul could be better. It was easy-" she placed the small knife down, only to pick up a bigger one- its blade was jagged, the handle larger. "-it was easy to manipulate you. I had hoped the afreet would rip you apart, ah, but no, I'm lying now. I had hoped since you first set foot into my house I could do this with you."

"No shame, no shame." She shook her head, quietly arranging her knives. Her pale eyes glinted eerily, not steel grey, but like maroon or the color of chestnut, dull and dry like old blood. "They never had any shame. I told them to stop, you know. Especially, poor Mary. She was so young; I gave her money, but she spent it on drinking and then she'd open her legs like the others if she needed more." The nerve of the old hag to blame the poor women she left mutilated on the streets for their doom!

"They wanted to show their bodies," Grandmother spat bitterly, gritting her teeth. "They'd wear those ugly dresses. I'd tell them not to do it, that it is not proper, that they should think of their children, or at least think of the dangerous attention they were getting. But do you think they ever listened to me?!" She chuckled mirthlessly, wrinkly face twisting into an ugly sneer. "No, no of course not. They wanted to display their bodies like the undignified wenches they were." Maka's breath hitched as Grandmother disdainfully tugged at the black frills of her skirt with a sniff. "And I helped them, I helped them to display their bodies in the end- how to do it right. I cut them open and took out their pretty bloody organs. If I hadn't done that, they would have never learned their lesson, you see?"

A few grey wisps of white had fallen out of her strict bun as she threw her head back and laughed softly and patted Maka's shin gently. "Don't worry, Child," she said, her voice a low warm timbre as her lips curled into a motherly smile. "I will help you, too." Her smile widened, her eyes lit up gleefully as she averted her gaze to the small table with her knives. Maka couldn't see what the old woman was doing, only able to listen to her tinkering with the knives. A prickling chill ran down her arms as Grandmother held up one of the smaller knives close to Maka's face.

"You have such pretty eyes," she mumbled absentmindedly, "I think I will keep them!" The point of the blade was right above her face, descending slowly and closing in on her right eyeball. Maka's mouth wouldn't move, wouldn't part to scream, to curse the witch to hell and back. Her skin prickled, bile and terror churning in her belly. But before the knife could cut into her eye, Grandmother pulled it back swiftly, frowning heavily.

"I am not sure if I should start with your eyes. I think it is going to be more enjoyable if you still have them when I cut you open." She made a grab for a different knife- a cleaver, large and menacing- and she tapped against Maka's knee with the broad side of it. "Should I hack your legs off first, my dear?"

Maka's heart leapt into her throat- the urge to scream and punch and yell was overwhelming- but her body remained glued down, even as the cold steel of the cleaver touched lightly against her chilled skin.

"Or should I cut your stomach open first?"

A small knife, this time a tiny scalpel, pressed against her abdomen, making her breath hitch and her eyes water. There was another one, oddly shaped with a curved blade, that was pressed against her neck. Grandmother never drew blood, never broke into her skin, just let the blades tap against Maka's skin with the barest hint of pressure, but it was enough to drive her insane, eliciting raspy pleased cackles from the old woman.

Perhaps it was a good thing she couldn't move her mouth- perhaps it was the only thing that kept Maka from sobbing like a child and begging for mercy or for a quick kill, at least. Grandmother's lips curved into a smile that was jarring in its blatant cruelty, her cold grey eyes appearing to shine, giddy and happy as her shoulders shook with her heaving breaths.

This was it.

She was going to die.

The blade broke into the soft, vulnerable skin of her thigh as Maka lay there, unbudging. It sliced slowly, a raw burn spreading in her leg, gnawing at muscle and sinew. She would have hissed if she could, but all she could register was the realization that she was not going to die yet- that she was going to be cut up like the poor women before her. This was her end: her first mission by herself a massive failure. She should have said properly goodbye to her friends and family, maybe not have haughtily expected to come back unscathed.

She had refused her father's hug and had, instead, turned her head away like the arrogant child she was. She shouldn't have punched Black*Star for being such an obnoxious person. And sweet, gentle Tsubaki- Maka hadn't even managed to see her before she left for England. And Soul… hopefully he was going to be safe; she couldn't live with the burden of putting him in harm's way like this.

 _Be good_ he had told her, but she was just a stupid girl who had overestimated her skills and powers. The blood trickling down the curve of her thigh was scalding, bright crimson dropping languidly down, drenching the wood of the floor.

The fingers of her right hand twitched, and she thought she was hearing scratching noises coming from somewhere.

The knife was pulled out of her leg in a second, Grandmother muttering quietly to herself. She was too proper to curse, but the venom in her voice was sharp and acidic for having her favorite pastime disturbed. Maka wanted to feel relieved, hoping help was on its way, but Grandmother hid her knife behind her back as she approached the door. She couldn't even use her soul perception to see who it was, if it was human or afreet…or wolf.

Soul!

The old door creaking open was drowned out by the powerful growl and Grandmother's shrill shrieks. The sound of flesh tearing apart reached Maka's ears, of sharp canines biting into old wrinkly skin; it was as satisfying as it was gruesome, and she wished she could see Soul tearing the old woman apart. The pain in her leg spread through her whole body, making her brain hazy, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a weak imitation of smile. She could move her fingers, but only those of her right hand.

Panic and hope alike flooded her veins as she tried regain the ability to move. It was only small twitch here and a jerk there- her left leg surged as if it were to corrode, her blood like burning poison, eating through her flesh, or perhaps it was the serum in her arteries or Grandmother's knives that had sliced into her. A heaving breath shook her shoulders, her heart clenching with hope. She had to move, she had to grab a knife, she had to kill this witch or whatever spawn of hell she was.

She aimlessly kicked her heel up, accidentally knocking the small table with Grandmother's knives down. They clattered noisily, but not noisy enough to overpower Soul's growls and the old woman's frantic screams as she struggled for her life. Maka's lips parted, but she didn't cry out for Soul; she kept her mouth shut, suppressing a whimper at the pain in her leg with tightly shut eyes and sweat beading on her forehead.

Soul's rumbling barks were cut off and morphed into pained whines as his body hit the ground with a loud thud, bones cracking and snapping. Her breath hitched and she halted her squirming for a second to listen. Grandmother's staggering steps and Soul's raspy intakes of breath were painful to her ears, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Ah, you're the boy. I knew there was something wrong with your soul when I first saw you, young man. Now I must kill you, too," Grandmother whispered, sounding nearly remorseful. Maka gritted her teeth forcefully, willed her neck to move, her eyes to look into the right direction. It was a slow process; her muscles were rigid and stiff, her bones palsied like the creaky joints of a broken doll. She managed to turn her head right when Grandmother's gnarly hand took a hold of Soul by his neck. He was still in his wolf form, smaller than she remembered him to be- much smaller- but the shrinking potion was definitely wearing off. Maka almost burst out laughing at Grandmother's state: half her face was only pink skin, bloodied and mutilated by Soul's sharp canines, claw marks stretched across her face, and blood dripped steadily down her limp arm. But Maka's delirious glee was short lived the moment she saw Soul, gasping quietly.

A butcher's knife was firmly clutched by Grandmother's good hand, Soul's eyes narrowing into tiny, tired slits.

"You just shouldn't have come here to save the harlot in red. Such a respectable gentleman like you should mingle with his own." Grandmother raised her knife a little. The smile on her face was deceptively warm. "I will kill you and keep your fur and make a nice rug out of it, my dear."

With a sudden jerk of her knees, Maka shakily planted her feet on the wooden floor. The room spun; textures, furniture, light, Grandmother, and Soul ceased to be for the briefest moment as everything swirled into a big mass of mismatched colours before her view cleared and she shook her head slowly. She would not let Soul die because of her mistakes. She was going to make sure that he, at least, was going to live. She staggered forward, her back and shoulder slouched, as she took one of Grandmother's knives that had fallen and rushed towards her.

The old woman turned around, unperturbed and prepared as she easily parried Maka's clumsy attack and hit the knife out of her hand. Grandmother was not afraid of her, or of Soul for that matter, her demeanour serene, her eyes calm even if she could only see through one eye at the moment. Her thin lips moved, but Maka couldn't make out her words- could only detect the bloodlust in her gaze, the casual tilt of her head, and Soul's broken form on the ground.

Her blood roared loudly in her veins, her heartbeat a thundering noise as everything seemed to slow down and Grandmother's cruel words registered only as garbled vowels and sounds in Maka's ears.

Maka took a deep breath and sluggishly evaded Grandmother's attack, but she had no time to recover, because the old woman immediately charged towards her again, but she only sliced through thin air once more. Maka took out the knife hidden in her bodice, but she wasn't fast enough, not precise enough, not strong enough, and Grandmother's pleased, confident smile felt like the final nail was being hammered on her coffin. The old woman was swift and relentless, never aiming for anything but what would cause the highest lethality. Maka was pushed back, barely able to defend her neck, her jugular, against the onslaught of Grandmother's attacks. But before the blade could pierce Maka's throat, Soul's jaw clamped around the old woman's shin, making her drop her weapon with a sharp clatter of steel and a high-pitched scream.

"I will cut you open!" the old woman screeched, trying to kick Soul away feebly. "I will kill you! Both of you, and feed the harlot's entrails to─"

Green eyes locked with hazy red for a brief second before Maka clutched her own dagger and, despite her drug-filled mind and body, moved with newly gathered fluidity.

The poor victims' faces and mutilated bodies flashed before her eyes, the terror-stricken expressions of other Whitechapel residents, Soul's trembling wolf-body, and the thinly veiled jeers of fellow sorcerers and sorceresses as they looked upon her haughtily.

She had made a mistake, but Maka learned from her mistakes. Grandmother's pale grey eye was almost beckoning her as Maka rammed her dagger with a smooth thrust of her forearm into the witch's eye-socket. Grandmother didn't have any time to cry out, her jaw threatening to unhinge as her mouth tore open in a silent scream, toppling down into her own pool of scalding blood.

There was a degree of twisted gratification weighing in Maka's heart to see such a small, seemingly frail but powerful and insane woman bleed to her death right in front of her blood soaked shoes, but there was no twinge of regret- just the sick feeling that the witch's blood was staining her hands right now like the victims' blood might have stained the old woman's. She waited until Grandmother's soul wavelength ceased to flicker, the violent red colour of it now unmasked and visible with each sadistic tendril within it. Maka's shoulders slumped, and she sighed when the witch took her last breath. She dropped onto her knees, her arms winding around Soul's neck impulsively.

Her shoulders shook, her breath hitched, but she wasn't crying. She barely noticed Soul's transformation, but the fur making way for tan, smooth skin was difficult to ignore. She pulled back slightly, choking back a hysteric sob as she tentatively grazed the wound on his temple with a fingertip.

"You-you're hurt," she said thickly as the blood rushed down her body, her head feeling light and dizzy.

"I'm fine," he wheezed out, his arms trembling around her waist as he asked her with a soft voice if she was injured and if she was able to stand, his gaze regretfully flitting down to her thigh. No further words were exchanged as they held each other tightly, almost eliciting a wave of crazed laughter from her, but all she did was to bury her face against his neck with a quivering sigh. Here she was having barely survived her first solo mission, all bloodied and taking comfort in the arms of a man she barely knew. However, she only squeezed him more tightly and closed her eyes, allowing herself these few minutes of warmth.

 

* * *

It had taken him too long to find a track, but the moment he realized whom the familiar smell belonged to, he had made his way to Grandmother's house. Soul looked guilty when he told her this as if he was to be faulted for her injuries. It had been a messy affair to explain to Scotland Yard what exactly had occurred: why an old woman was the killer, why said woman had been disposed of via a dagger through her eye, why Maka had been hugging a naked man while there was blood everywhere, why a naked man was there in the first place.

It was hours later that Maka was able to relay everything to Lord Death, who looked eerily pensive despite his unchanging mask. She had chosen a mirror in one of the guest rooms that was far from where Soul was recuperating; she didn't want to disturb him, nor did she want to explain to him why she was having a conversation with an inanimate object.

"You're saying that this witch, this Grandmother, could conceal the true shape of her soul?" Lord Death asked lightly, but Maka knew that in spite of his jolly demeanour, he had to be fretting inside, because these were alarming tidings. Soul protect was one thing- the total disappearance of a soul- but this soul masking was not to be taken lightly. It had put her into a dire situation which she had only escaped by luck.

Maka nodded in response, wishing nothing more than to fall into her temporary bed and sleep, but she would never be so disrespectful towards her superior and cut their conversation short. She pushed a few blond bangs behind her ear and ran her hand through her hair, disheveling it even more as she bit back a tired sigh. Lord Death studied her for a moment before he nodded.

"Alright. I think this will be enough, Maka. Thank you for your hard work. Go get some rest now- you have more than earned it." She could hear the smile in his voice, but it didn't make her feel particularly better. She bid him goodbye before the big mirror became a normal mirror again. Her shoulders dropped and all pretenses of a professional appearance vanished in a second.

Having killed that witch did not feel like a victory at all, even though she had freed the world of a dangerous threat. Yet as she opened the door to her bedroom only to find Soul sprawled out on her bed, she couldn't help but smile a little. His sleep had to have been rather light, because he startled awake the moment she closed the door behind her, his eyes growing wide as he gasped, aghast and mortified, wiping a thin trickle of drool from the corner of his mouth.

"M-maka! I-I─" he stammered, uneasily rubbing the back of his neck.

She shook her head and giggled quietly into her palm, too fatigued and amused to be incensed at his indecency of falling asleep on her bed. He kept stuttering his apologies until she assured him, with a pat on his head, that she wasn't angry at him. He looked more like a little deer at the moment, and even though the bitter weight of failure made her want to dissolve into thin air, she was grateful for his company, at least. She seated herself next to him on the bed, but, of course, a well-mannered man like Soul would not sit there, making her roll her eyes and keep him seated with her hand pressing gently against his wrist.

After all that had happened, he was still clinging to silly concepts of propriety? She inhaled deeply, the pungent stench of blood still firmly embedded in her imagination; she was clean, as was Soul, and her bedroom had always been immaculately neat, yet she still wanted to take another bath and rub her skin raw. She didn't remove her hand from his, feeling like she needed this- the subtle warmth, the affirmation that they were both alive and well and breathing.

"I want to thank you, Soul. Without you...I would have-I would have─" she squeezed his wrist tightly, her bones trembling, wracking her body with a shudder.

"Don't mention it. I couldn't do much aside from getting myself nearly killed. If anything, I am the one who should be thanking you," he said resolutely, patting her knuckles lightly. Perhaps it was this tender gesture or the slight waver in his voice that forced her to notice the trepidation oozing out of him, making her realize he had been afraid, too.

The dam in her broke, together with her ability to keep her mouth shut.

"No, no, no." She shook her head and bit her lip. "I-I should have never let it come this far. I should have been able to handle this by myself, but I was careless and dragged you into such a dangerous situation, too. I am a failure." Her breath hitched as she blinked quickly, appalled at the tears in her eyes. "The others told me I wouldn't be able to handle it, but I was stubborn and wanted to prove them wrong- wanted to laugh at their faces when I came back!" she spat hurriedly, clenching her free hand into a fist. "I can't even claim that my main priority was justice. I...I wanted them to stop underestimating me, and look what I did?!" She laughed bitterly, eyes dull. "I just affirmed their points. My skills don't live up to my family name."

Soul parted his lips, but no words would come out; he did this a few times until he decided to keep his mouth shut and let the heavy silence drift between them. It didn't last for long, but it was enough for Maka to realize what she had admitted in his presence. She was dreading his judgment, yet it made the knot in her chest loosen. She was a hypocrite, claiming to want justice, but in the end she had been mostly motivated by personal gain in this mission: respect, recognition, and pride.

"I do not know what kind of people live in this Death City you have mentioned," he finally said, his voice a soothing lull that made her ease a little more into the mattress, her shoulder propped against the bedpost. "But...I think you are amazing at what you do." He became quieter and quieter with each word, and while she was touched, her cynicism overruled any warm and fuzzy feelings that were going haywire in her mind and making her stomach flutter.

She snorted loudly, jerking her chin up, mocking. "Of course, you would say that. You haven't seen other practitioners of magic─"

"Maybe so, but still."

The slight hunch of his shoulders told her that he was unsatisfied with his rebuttal. His pouty lower lip made her almost giggle, but she was far too bitter- the sour traces of abject dread still had her atremble. The flash of a closet full of polished knives made her thigh tingle, her throat raw and tight in memory of the smile on Grandmother's face, the delight in her eyes at the prospect of cutting her open from head to toe.

She tightly clenched her eyes shut, ramming and rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyelids, willing for the images to go away. But the only thing that vaguely comforted her and eased her heart was Grandmother's unmoving body on the ground and _her_ blood on Maka's hands. Her breath hitched, her eyes opened, and her hands were red- red and dirty and filthy. Her thigh hurt with a pain that stretched down her entire leg, shooting up to her hip, and the pictures of the victims' mutilated bodies were before her again: intestines cut out of their bellies, limbs and fingers removed, necks cleanly sliced. She had nearly become one of them, nothing more but dead skin and dried blood on concrete and cobblestones.

Maka had seen those pictures often enough, and while she had been disturbed, the images had never affected her to this degree. It didn't register in her mind that the quilt was pulled from beneath her until it was securely wrapped around her shivering shoulders. She perked up with a gasp as the world before her eyes realigned itself; Soul's hand remained on her shoulder for a second, long enough to catch her vacant gaze.

"You never dragged me into this, Maka," he said, removing his hand from the quilt, casting his eyes down with a sigh. "I must make an admission, too. While I joined you willingly because I wanted to help you, I was selfish, because mostly I did not want to be alone after all these years of solitude. I will not judge you for why you came here, but I know for certain that you are a good person and...you are strong. That is all I need to know and...and I am not sure if it is right of you to beat yourself up over what happened."

She buried her chin in the quilt, trying to hide a smile...or a frown- she wasn't sure. This man certainly thought very highly of her for reasons she couldn't entirely grasp, but she couldn't say she didn't appreciate his attempts at cheering her up. Or, perhaps, he was saying these sweet words because she was the first woman he had come across in hundred years.

Her heartbeat slowed down from its frenzied thudding even though her arms were shuddering underneath the blanket, her skin erupting into goose bumps, and she felt vaguely at ease as the bloodcurdling images vanished and her thoughts strayed away from the disturbing killer. It was an unconscious move on her part- at least, she hadn't meant to scoot this much closer to him- but he was warm and she was glad that she wasn't alone right now. Her shoulder bumped against his as she cushioned her head against it.

His muscles tensed up as he sucked in a surprised breath, his head craning to look at her nearly dozing off against him. A strong arm tentatively wrapped around her waist, making her smile against him and snuggle close, closing her eyes and relishing in his smell- like the forest where she first found him: wet leaves and moss-covered soil. She savored his warmth, the comfort of his touch, and no words were exchanged as her own arm found its way across his torso, her fingers splaying over his shoulder. He jumped a little, a strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat, but only pulled her closer, making her sit almost on his lap.

Maka couldn't exactly tell how much of a conscious decision it was of hers to shift in place that caused him to squirm, or how much she had intended to lie down on the soft feather bed and pull him closer still with a hand clasping around his wrist. Soul gasped out her name, and she decided that she liked that sound, liked how his chest pressed lightly against hers- not enough to smother her, but enough for her to take note of how broad his shoulders were, how hard his chest was, how strong his arms were.

Her breath hitched and her fingers flexed against his upper arm. His gaze grew wider with each passing second only for his eyes to narrow as he drank in the sight of her dishevelled appearance: of her nightgown's sleeve that was askew and baring her shoulder, of her exposed thighs as the fabric had ridden almost up to her crotch.

There was a faint voice within her that admonished her, and the more she listened to it, the more reasonable it sounded. She barely knew this man- she was not a woman who'd let a stranger bed her- but she had gone through many things with him most strangers didn't find themselves going through. Her skin was still crawling with the chill that Grandmother's knife had left behind, her thigh tingling uncomfortably at the memory. Soul's touch was warm, heating her skin and making her breaths short and flat, and she arched her back as he caressed her hips, running his hand through her hair, over her cheek, her neck, her collarbones.

She felt him hard against her leg and she shifted a little, so he could settle between her thighs more comfortably. Yes, this was nice- warm and comforting. His touch would dispel the ice in her heart, even if it was only for a night. Just this once.

Maka licked her lips and pulled him closer.

 

* * *

The next morning, Soul was woken by the sun shining into his eyes and the noisy clucking of the neighbour's chicken, which promptly made his stomach growl. He let out a muffled groan and sluggishly buried his face into a pillow, unconsciously inhaling Maka' scent.

As if on cue, Maka's quiet voice drifted towards him, much farther than he had anticipated, and as he opened an eye, he realized that she wasn't lying next to him.

"Good Morning," she said, dressed already in red again, of course, but the dress was longer, less frilly and sewn with lighter material, making it more practical. He was a little disappointed as his mind flashed back to last night- how he had almost stripped her out of that flimsy nightgown of hers, how he had touched her breasts, how she had let him nestle between her legs before she decided otherwise. He had understood, of course. As much as he craved her skin, he'd accept her boundaries likewise, and it had been comforting when she had asked him to stay after their almost-tryst.

"Good Morning," he replied gruffly, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He blinked. Her eyes were guarded, her hands clasped together behind her back. Ah, she was certainly regretting what she did last night with him, even if it did not result in sex. He shouldn't feel disappointed at the prospect he should have expected it, but his heart clenched painfully as he disentangled himself from the quilt to stand up.

"I have to leave in an hour or I won't make it in time to my ship," she said hastily and it took him a few seconds to take in her words with all their meanings and implications. His body staggered at the thought of being left alone, of going back into that wretched forest.

Big red eyes locked with her face, helpless. Soul clenched his fists. "But...why?" he asked meekly, aware of her reasons, aware of the fact that he was acting like a child. A bitter knot was etched in his throat, making it hard for him to breathe as he resisted every urge in his body to take her by the arms and press her against his chest until she changed her decision.

"I have to go home, Soul. Back to Death City." She sounded somewhat regretful, her voice solemn as she avoided to look at him, but instead watched her shoes intently as she shifted from foot to foot.

He wanted to protest, but he'd rather choke on the words than beg her to stay. She wouldn't, he knew. She had friends and family and teachers to go back to- a life of her own- in a different house, in a different country, and a wholly different world from his.

"O-of course, I-I understand," he choked out, willing his hands to stop trembling. "I will...I will just...have to go back to the forest." He smiled brokenly, taking in a shuddery breath through clenched teeth. "I will just go back. I couldn't possibly live in London. I have...nothing left. I will...I will go back. Yes."

The last thing he wanted was that. Not after a small taste of humanity, not after her company, not after everything that had happened. He gulped shakily, ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the bed again. He didn't think he'd be able to stand without plummeting through the floor with this crushing wave of despair pressing down on him.

"You could come with me?" Maka asked timidly, uncertainly, her brows furrowed. Soul's head snapped up.

"What?"

She straightened her stance and said, more resolutely this time, "Come with me, Soul." Her smile made his heart ache. Could he allow himself to hope that she wanted him? He had not misheard? "Think about it, Soul. In Death City, you will meet people that are like you. You won't be alone anymore if you come with me. I am sure Lord Death will be delighted- he won't mind, and the people there are all very kind if somewhat odd."

It was pathetic how briefly he mulled the idea over before he replied, voice thick, "Yes, I would love to come with you."

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this story arc is complete, I have come to really like this universe I have created and want to do more for it, incorporate different arcs and such and include the other Soul Eater characters as well. I can't tell you when more will be added to this, but be on the lookout ;) I really hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have enjoyed writing it.


End file.
